


The Pull of Us

by Shelikestv



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon Divergent, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M, Memory Loss, Pre-Season/Series 10, dubious consent kissing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-10
Updated: 2021-02-01
Packaged: 2021-03-10 18:00:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 29,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28491309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shelikestv/pseuds/Shelikestv
Summary: "Cas, did you. . .  dreamcrash me last night?”Dean immediately knew the answer as he looked at Cas's face. Shit.“Did you dream about me?” asked Cas. The words tumbled quickly from his mouth, one eyebrow cocked with an intrigued look. Cas stepped forward, stopping just short of knocking Dean over.Dean bit the inside of his cheek, bracing himself. This was going to be uncomfortable.
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 318
Kudos: 290





	1. Just a Dream

**Author's Note:**

> A huge thank you to @Sinnabonka and @WanderingCas. My betas deserve all the thanks for being so incredible.

“I'm dreaming,” Dean said, scanning his surroundings.

His words ricocheted off the ceiling and echoed through the small space. The angles and cut of the room seemed slightly skewed, even if he couldn’t place how. Dean blinked. The floor swirled as if adrift on water and any misstep would send him floating.

Sitting up, he ghosted his fingertips along his blanket. It was his room. His bed. His hands, he noted, holding them in front of him. But the edges of his mind blurred slightly in his psyche. 

Dean closed his eyes and breathed. When he looked again, the scene had coalesced more tangibly. The room almost looked normal. Visually, everything was concrete and all the elements were present: his dresser, the hard floors, the shelf behind his bed littered with scattered objects.

This was the most detailed dream he’d ever had. Even the small crack in the corner of the ceiling he stared at every night looked identical. Everything seemed real and vivid, leaving him cold and confused. Still, a buried part of his mind sensed the dissonance and screamed at him not to trust what he was seeing. 

Dean’s eyes trailed along the rough brick walls. He scanned each dip of mortar before panning to the corner of the room where Cas stood statue-still, watching him. 

Jolting, Dean scrambled from the bed and moved forward. He slowed to more deliberate strides as his head began to swim.

“Yes, this is a dream, Dean,” came Cas's deep voice. He stood frozen as if waiting for clarity to take hold. As he got closer, Dean suddenly realized Cas was soaking wet. Water dripped from the messy locks of Cas’s hair, stray strands glued to his forehead. Even his coat was drenched through, the runoff pooling in small reflective circles on the floor.

“Cas," Dean gasped. "What the hell happened to you?”

Cas tilted his head as Dean approached. He lifted the lapel of his jacket as if noticing his saturated appearance for the first time, then dropped it dismissively.

“The rain caught me off guard,” he said in vague explanation.

Cas’s nonchalance did little to dissuade Dean from the warning that tugged at the inside of his consciousness.

Carefully, Dean took another step, vision teetering. “Is this even really you? I mean, real you?”

Cas scrunched his eyebrows. “Of course I'm real,” he said. The contrast of his water-slicked complexion made his eyes even more intensely bright and blue. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time you dreamcrashed,” Dean admitted cautiously. 

Cas bridged the space between them, trailing glassy outlines of his shoes behind.

“Do you dream of me often?” he asked, steady eyes earnest and unashamed. Cas's hair jutted out like a wet, messy sprinkler, his tie slightly askew. Dean could feel Cas’s heat permeating from him like steam.

“What—no. Why the hell are you pulling a creepy sandman act on me, anyway?” Dean deflected, shuffling from one foot to the next. 

Suddenly, the room started to change, the dream fog beginning to lift.

In the background, the familiar calm thrum that radiated through the bunker was now a shrill whistle, pitching itself higher, making Dean wince. His veins pumped cool, then icy. 

“You're waking up,” said Cas. “I'll have to be quick.” 

Dean shuttered as Cas leaned in and put a hand on each of his shoulders. Cas’s damp fingertips dug into him as if trying to keep him grounded. Water soaked and spread through the thin layer of his shirt.

Lightly, Cas tugged Dean close until their cheeks were almost touching. He tipped his chin up and to the left, waves of hot breath landing on the rim of Dean’s ear. 

When Cas spoke it was soft and slow. Each new phrase was coded with emotional force. Dean’s dream delirium had slightly returned, and he struggled to process the words. They floated through him out of order and out of context, like broken puzzle pieces falling into his mind. 

“What?” Dean asked, confused. 

Bright lights surged through the room, flashing, then disappearing. The deafening crash of thunder blared in Dean’s ear. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the heavy weight of Cas’s hands was gone.

Dean’s eyes flew open and he shot up in bed. He blinked rapidly, one hand fisting his shirt in front of his heart to calm the ripple of sharp breaths.

He blinked against the darkness, sweating, his heart racing. The room was chillingly silent and empty. Dean froze as he took inventory of reality. Rubbing his eyes, he let his feet flop to the side of the bed, forcing himself to calm down. His eyes grazed the floor looking for water, but the hard surface was bone-dry. Just a dream. Just a stupid dream. 

Dean’s skin blazed with heat, and he scratched absently at his handprint scar, making his fingers tingle.

Still, he couldn’t shake the way the dream had felt so. . . other. Not real, but not like any dream he’d ever had before, either. The feel of Cas’s words stayed with him, ripping at his nerves. What had he been trying to say?

***

Dean’s sleep was fitful. The way the bunker shielded him from any sunlight exacerbated his habit of waking up too early. At least today it felt warranted. He plodded through the dim-lit halls, making his way to the kitchen and opened the fridge door with a groan. His muscles felt stiff and sore. 

Using the back of his hand, he shoved a few items around, considering, then grabbed a beer. Not bothering to snag a plate or toppings, Dean snatched a bagel and made his way to the table. The chair scraped too loudly against the floor. It felt too stiff when he sat on it. He pulled a second chair over and propped his crossed bare feet on top of the armrest. 

Biting into the bagel was a mistake. He grimaced at the stale taste, plunking it down, crumbs tumbling to the floor. Leaning back in his chair, he rubbed the bridge of his nose.

His head thrummed with the sound of Cas’s voice. 

Dean cleared his throat and twisted open his beer. The tight notches of the cap dug into his fingers as he did, bringing him back. Taking a longer than necessary swig, condensation ran down his chin. He wiped it away with a knuckle.

Halfway through his beer, Dean pulled out his phone, shooting a quick text to Cas: “Call me when you get this.”

Just then Sam walked through the door sporting wrinkled pajamas, one eye barely open while the other twitched as he yawned. 

“You're up,” Sam said, surprised. He pulled the chair out from under Dean’s feet, letting them crash to the ground. Dean lurched forward, barely regaining his balance and scowled. 

Sam ignored him, pointing instead at Dean’s beer: “A bit early, isn't it?” 

Dean deadpanned, “Breakfast of champions.” 

He took another deep sip then landed the bottle loudly against the table, the glass feeling dewy and heavy beneath his fingers. 

Sam shook his head and went to grab something actually edible. Dean shifted in his seat, rubbing at the underside of his chin. 

“You heard from Cas lately?” he asked, directing the question to his brother's back. Sam turned and looked at Dean with a bleary-eyed expression. He shoved a hand into the pocket of his pajama pants, and pulled out his phone, looking at it. 

“No. Why, anything wrong?”

“Not sure,” Dean hesitated, the words catching in his throat. 

Sam eyed him, curious. He should probably tell Sam. In fact, part of him wanted to. But, as Sam looked back at him with comically fluffy morning hair, he paused. He thought about Cas's breath on his ear, his shivers against his touch. Dean glanced at his hands, fiddling with the beer.

“It’s nothing. We just haven’t heard from him in a bit.” He couldn’t help the way his tone got sharper when he finished with “Usually means he’s up to something stupid.”

Sam paused, scratching at his neck. 

“Yeah. Maybe I could try calling him? It has been awhile.”

Dean nodded vaguely, trying to hide the fact that the offer made him uncomfortable. It was just dawning on him in a very present way that he needed to talk to Cas first.

“Thanks, Einstein, but if he isn’t answering me, he’s certainly not going to answer you,” he said instead. Sam tucked his hair behind his ears with a huff.

Dean barely acknowledged his brother's bare feet padding against the floor as he sat down to eat. He stared at the flipped corner of the beer’s label sipping the rest of the bitter drink slowly. Finally he reached the end, tipping it one last time to let the final drops fall onto his tongue. 

He sighed, checking his phone. Still no response. 

Dean’s pointer finger tapped the outside of his phone in an annoyed rhythm. Cas was always terrible about checking in, but lately it had gotten worse. Last time it’d taken three days of ignored calls before Cas had popped in suddenly, unannounced with a quick “I was busy.” As if it explained anything. It was frustrating as hell.

If Cas was going to keep ignoring him, he’d have to try plan B. Prayer. His neck grew hot as he considered it.

Sam had his laptop out, searching for cases and barely noticed Dean leave. Dean felt fidgety as he made his way to his room, closing the door and locking it behind him. He sat down on the edge of the bed, rapping his phone against his thigh. Checking it again, he tossed it on the pillow. 

Usually when he prayed it felt more. . . justified, like scrounging angel radio for information. Praying was reserved for cases, emergencies, or, if the timing called for it, the occasional apocalypse. He needed information this time, too, but now that he was alone in his room, his neck and ears turned hot and red. Was he really considering praying to Cas? About a dream?

This whole thing could mean something, but he might just also be about to admit to Cas that, what? He’d started popping up in his dreams? Talk about creepy. If it wasn’t Cas reaching out, this could get really awkward.

Dean looked at his hands remembering the tangible feeling of the dream. Of his room. Of Cas. He started to question himself. What if Cas really were reaching out? What if he needed help? The dream could’ve been a warning. It wouldn’t have been the first time. 

He swallowed down his worry and looked to the ceiling as if Cas might come crashing through it. 

“Cas, you there?” he spoke, his voice smaller than he’d like to admit. “Kinda need to talk to you. Pop your feathery ass down here for a second, will you?” 

He tapped his toe, waiting. Long seconds passed, then minutes. Cas might just be busy, he rationalized, but he was never any good at listening to his own advice.

Dean started pacing the room, checking the clock, sitting then standing again. Still nothing. His hesitation turned to frustration.

“Cas, c’mon!” he spat, gruffly, but the pleading in his head felt more subdued: Please, just don’t be hurt.

“Shit.” 

Dean scrubbed his hand across his face, taking out his phone again. He’d scrolled to Cas’s name when he was interrupted.

“Hello, Dean,” came Cas's voice from the corner of the room. Dean’s head swirled with the feeling of déjà vu, Cas’s blue eyes piercing him from across the space. He breathed, focusing himself back to reality with the slow stretch of his lungs. 

Dean’s shoulders relaxed and he sighed in relief, even while his teeth slightly clenched together. 

“Did you get my texts?” 

Cas walked to Dean’s side, squinting.

“No,” he said. He took his own phone out of his pocket, eyeing it like a foreign creature. He hammered at the icons with a thumb, scowl deepening. “Must be on silent again.”

Cas accidentally hit the power button and everything went dark. Dean shook his head. “Give it here,” he said, rolling his eyes. He tapped on the screen quickly while Cas frowned.

“This wouldn’t be a problem if you checked it every once in a while,” spat Dean, plunking it back in Cas’s hand.

Cas looked away, eyes searching the walls as if they were more worthy of his attention than the conversation.

“What did you call about?” he asked, finally pinning his heavy stare right on Dean again. It was overwhelming the way that Cas could seem like he was a million miles away, and yet the second he looked at you, he felt too close. It’d felt that way in the dream, too.

Dean knew he wasn’t dreaming now, and the words were starting to lump in his throat.

“What’s wrong?” Cas asked, scanning his face, this time sounding worried. 

Dean diverted his eyes, trying to pretend away his behavior.

“Yeah. Hey, Cas, buddy” he coughed, clearing his throat again, trying to re-instill a more casual tone, "I gotta ask you something.” 

Cas nodded. 

“Anything,” said Cas, unblinking.

Dean ran his hands through his hair, looking at the floor sheepishly, then sneaked a glance up, his chin still by his chest. 

“Did you. . . God, I can’t believe I’m saying this. Okay, here goes. Did you. . . dreamcrash me last night?”

Dean immediately knew the answer as he looked at Cas's face. Shit.

“Did you dream about me?” asked Cas. The words tumbled quickly from his mouth, one eyebrow cocked with an intrigued look. Cas stepped forward, stopping just short of knocking Dean over. 

Dean bit the inside of his cheek, bracing himself. This was going to be uncomfortable. 

He quickly turned his back on Cas as he talked. 

“It's nothing,” he started, waving it away. “Forget I brought it up.” 

Before he could finish shutting it down, Cas was in front of him again, his normally intense expression amplified. He furrowed his eyebrows, pursing his lips in thought.

“Dean?” he coaxed.

Lacing his hands behind his neck, Dean felt cornered.

“I dunno man, you showed up completely soaked in water, okay? It was weird. You were saying something to me, but I couldn't really understand. Thought it was you playing dream stalker again, but when I woke up? Gone. Couldn’t remember a word.” He shrugged. “Let’s just drop it. Probably too many hunts waiting for your sorry ass to show up. My subconscious held a dream grudge.” 

Cas nodded vaguely, but looked extremely distracted. There was something else on his mind, Dean could tell. Dean set aside his own embarrassment as he tried to understand Cas’s knit brows. 

“Cas, what?” he asked, demanding. 

“It's just,” Cas finally said, “Interesting,” he finished, the last word trailing off. Without movement, Cas looked as if he was made of plaster, staring down at the floor.

“That’s not very demonstrative Cas, you wanna elaborate?”

“It’s not anything you need to worry about,” Cas said, his mouth minutely twitching. 

Dean cocked his head back, eyes getting big. 

“You do realize telling me not to worry pretty much guarantees I’m gonna worry? I started this conversation with two options: either you dreamjacked me, or the bottle of Jack I drank jacked my dream. Now I’m getting the feeling there’s some third, somehow more confusing option, so please, share with the class.”

Dean waited, the floor starting to feel unsteady beneath him. He studied the way Cas’s fingers twitched and flexed like he was calculating. Crossing his arms, Dean pursed his lips while angling a cool eyebrow. 

“It’s hard to understand,” said Cas. “I’m not sure how to explain.”

Cocking his head, the familiar pressure of suspicion began to stretch at the inside of Dean’s ribcage.

“Try.”

Cas ignored him, looking pensive. He didn’t move, but Dean could feel Cas slipping away from him, his attention dissolving to faraway thoughts. He knew from experience what was coming next.

“Cas, wait, no. Don’t--”

Cas looked to the ceiling.

“I need to go.”

The quiet rustle of wings sounded through the room, the image of Cas ghosting away with a blink.

Dean let his arms unravel and fall to his sides, voice hollow in the empty room:

“Leave,” he sighed quietly to himself. “Don’t fucking leave.”

Blinking at the deserted space, Dean shook himself from the waves of confusion that scattered through him. He threw his hands in the air, mouth falling open. 

“Real nice!” Dean yelled loudly to the empty room, then more quietly to himself: “Cas, what the hell is going on?”

****

****Some amazing chapter fanart by my beta, Ana (sinnabonka):

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For your edification, I barely talked myself out of naming this chapter "Wet Dreams." You're welcome. Or, sorry. Depending.  
> Come shout at me on tumblr [HERE](https://shelikestv.tumblr.com/)


	2. Tipping Point

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Frustrated, Cas opened his eyes. He felt irritation growing within himself as Dean’s story replayed in his mind. He wasn't going to get anywhere like this. 
> 
> “You were saying something to me, but I couldn't really understand,” echoed Dean's voice in his head. The second he had heard that, he’d known something was off.

Cas was perfectly still, thinking. The air pressed against him, possessive and cold. His trench coat flapped absently; his face starting to crystallize with brisk humidity. Even his eyelashes crusted with frost. He felt the temperature change through every inhale; a burning sensation in his nose. The circular process felt rhythmic. Breathe in-cold to heat. Breathe out-smoky puffs of hot air, chilling again. 

His eyes remained closed but he could hear the groan of the forest around him against the wind. He’d just needed a quiet space to think, and the lonely Taiga had seemed like a good choice. 

When the air finally calmed, Cas was enveloped with the absolute silence of untouched snow.

He'd been in the same spot for an hour now, eyes closed, and body unmoving. Each second passed over him. His brain, unconnected with time, was stationed far away searching for an answer. 

Frustrated, Cas opened his eyes. He felt irritation growing within himself as Dean’s story replayed in his mind. He wasn't going to get anywhere like this. 

“You were saying something to me, but I couldn't really understand,” echoed Dean's voice in his head. The second he had heard that, he’d known something was off. 

True, human's dreamed of strange and curious things, most of them meaningless. It wasn't the dream itself that caused Cas anxiety, though. It was the timing. 

Cas glared at the falling snow, feeling guilty. His hand twitched as he thought about the night before, the images flashing through his mind, each picture painted blood red. Cas grabbed his head, groaning, and falling to one knee as a fresh wave of hot, searing pain ripped through his brain. 

“The after effects can be a bitch, can’t they?” came a deep, accented voice. Cas saw a hazy shadow saunter towards him slowly. Each heavy step the man took smashed footprints in the once-pure snow with a crunch. He was dressed in black; hands hidden in the pockets of his overcoat. 

Cas put a hand on the ground and pushed himself up until he was standing.

“I’m fine,” he grumbled to Crowley who drifted in front of him.

Crowley smirked at Cas, shaking his head a little. “Mustn't lie, angel.”

“I’m fine,” Cas said again, more firmly.

“Sure you are,” Crowley mocked. “Thousands of winged do-gooders have gone where we've gone. Done what we've done.” He said the last part with a wink. Cas’s fists balled at his sides.

“It should have worked,” Cas said through bared teeth, the admission feeling gritty in his mouth. “Why didn’t it work?” 

Crowley rolled his eyes. “Millions of years old, and you'd think the angelic clan would have learned a little patience.”

“I don’t think we should keep doing this,” Cas said, rubbing his bottom lip with a finger. Then, almost to himself: “there may be more consequences than we realize.”

Pointing at him, Crowley squinted. 

“Something happened, didn’t it?” he accused. “What was it?”

Cas turned away. “No,” he said curtly. “I’m just not sure any of this is worth it. Working with you.”

Crowley huffed, but shook it off. “Fine, don’t divulge, but you and I both know you never would have come to me if you weren't desperate. Whatever worries you have must be worth the consequences, because you’re not walking away right now. You can’t. It may be a week, a century, but eventually you'll come back, and do you know why?” 

Lowering his voice for emphasis, Crowley said, “Because you need to know, and I'm the only one who’s willing to help you with this.” 

Frowning, Cas narrowed his eyes. “You’re only helping me because you have a  _ willing  _ subject to experiment on.”

Crowley shrugged, and nodded. “What can I say? I enjoy watching Angels writhe for me. I’m a simple man.”

Folding his arms in tightly over his chest, his face and posture far more petulant and childlike than angelic, Cas looked Crowley squarely in the eyes. As much as Cas was getting from the arrangement, it was clear from Crowley’s smug looks that a chance at playing around in an Angel’s head provided him with as much useful information as it did payback. He exhaled, watching the faint cloudy puff as his breath froze midair. Part of him itched to walk away, but even as he processed it, he knew Crowley was right. Eventually he’d need to find the truth. He thought of Dean, his chest tightening. 

“Why forestall the inevitable?” Crowley coaxed.

Cas huffed, still not making eye contact, and he waited a long time before finally answering. 

“I'll meet you tonight,” he said. “Same place.” 

Cas turned, prepared to fly away, but before he did, he glanced back over his shoulder. 

“And Crowley,” he said, giving him a hard look, “If you tell Dean about this, I'll kill you myself.”

* * * 

That night, Dean dreamed of Cas again. Like the first time, Cas whispered things to him that his mind couldn’t hold onto. Dean's skin freckled with goosebumps as the words slipped from Cas’s tongue and into the void as soon as he spoke them. Dean felt the room spinning, the walls melting away from him, hurtling him back into consciousness. 

He woke with a start, sweating. 

“ _ Cas _ ” he mouthed, not allowing himself to pray out loud. He breathed, his mind coming back to the same questions:  _ Why is this happening? What does it mean? _

Despite it being one of the coldest nights of the year, Dean donned his boots and coat, ditched his room and decided he needed to go for a three A.M. drive. There was no way he was going back to sleep, anyway. He could tell from their last conversation that whatever was happening to him, had either freaked Cas the hell out, or he knew something Dean didn’t, and the thought sunk heavily in his chest.

He got dressed, left a note for Sam, and started the Impala. It was still snowing. White mounds blanketed the scenery as he rolled along the quiet streets, his headlights muted by idle snowflakes wandering in front of the beams. 

He wound down his window a crack, and inhaled the fresh air. The icy breath brought Dean back to the present moment, and the dream's disorientation began to settle. A few houses he drove by had modest white Christmas lights strung along the rooftops and Dean drove slower past these. 

“What are you trying to tell me?” Dean asked aloud after he felt more like himself. He was careful to avoid Cas's name, just in case it turned into a prayer. Dean pulled over and turned the car off as he closed his eyes, struggling to pull the memory of Cas's words from his mind. 

At first, there was nothing. All he could recall was the close proximity, Cas’s hands on his shoulders, and a buzz in the air between them. The skin on Dean's ear began to tingle slightly as though the words were being breathed into him once again. It was strange hearing Cas's deep voice speaking in such soft, fluid tones. Dean concentrated harder, his eyes squeezed tightly shut as he willed his brain to retrieve Cas's message. His mind resisted the memory as if he were trying to conjure one of his drunken blackouts on the road. Eventually, though, he felt his brain start to surrender. 

He listened carefully, and then suddenly he understood. As Cas spoke, Dean's mind was inundated with information. It was as if every word was bound to an image, an emotion, a sound, and a story. The actual things Cas said were scattered and nonsensical by themselves, like receiving the end of a book before the beginning. 

He listened anyway, allowing each word to sink into his psyche, trying to retain every bit of disjointed data. The pictures flowed into his mind, crashing through the mental barriers that had been walled up around his memories and spilled them back into place. He gasped as the last images clicked in; the rippled waters of his mind slowly stilling like reflective glass. He opened his eyes quickly, starting the car, and he booked it back to the bunker. 

* * * 

Sam slumped over a laptop in the library. They hadn’t had a case in weeks, but still Sam shuffled through the bunker’s inventory nightly, methodically scrawling messy notes. 

At the moment, his eyes strained reading the smudged spell of a witch. It was messy, not to mention written on what looked to be tanned hide. He avoided touching it, hit with the stomach curdling suspicion it was human flesh.

The door was noisy, so he wasn’t surprised to see Dean’s dripping form when he walked in the room. 

“Hey,” he started, but Dean cut him off. 

“I need paper.” Dean said, hurrying around, opening random drawers frantically, pulling one askew from its tracks. Sam came over and fixed it. He pulled the right drawer open and handed Dean a notepad and a pen, eyes narrowed. 

Dean quickly began to draw, shutting his eyes briefly every now and then, as if trying to pull information to the front of his mind before it disintegrated from his memory. 

“What're you...?” Sam started before being shushed. He didn't ask any more questions.

Dean laid the pen tip against his bottom lip, digging it in. He wrote, then crossed out a few attempts, ripping out and balling up the paper to throw on the floor. Sam frowned.

Finally, Dean placed the pen down on the table, looking at the completed work with a stunned expression. 

Sam came closer to get a clearer look, then picked up the notebook, eyes skimming over Dean's scribbles. He held the writing up to the light.

“What is this?” Sam asked, eyes following the intricate blue scratches. “It looks like. . . “

Dean paused, hesitating. Then, he finally said it: “I think it's Enochian.”

“Enochian?” Sam asked. “Since when do you know Enochian?” 

The neglected pen rolled from the table to the floor with a clack.

“I don’t, uh, I mean. . .well. . . I dreamed it, okay? It doesn’t matter.” Dean answered. 

Sam didn't respond for a minute, his mouth opening and closing a few times as if he were testing his reply to figure out what to say. 

“You dreamed it,” he finally said.

Dean bit his bottom lip, raising his eyebrows in uncomfortable confirmation.

“Look, I know it sounds insane, but this was more than just a dream.” Dean started talking with his hands, getting more animated. “It was, I dunno. . . real somehow. Whatever it is, it’s messed up. I just need someone to have a little faith in me when I say something is not right here.” 

Dean caught Sam smiling at his last remark. ”Faith?” 

“Shut up.” 

Dean turned his attention back to the notebook. Sam followed his cue. They stared down at the way Dean’s heavy hand had carved the lines into the paper, cutting their way through to the next sheet in some places.

“Okay, so what exactly was this dream?” 

Dean sighed, raising his shoulders, and rolling his head. The gun he kept nestled in the waistband of his jeans dug into the small of his back. Drumming his fingers and toes in time, he started.

“Alright,” he conceded. “But no commenting. And no faces.” 

Sam attempted to stay neutral, but from the way Dean's expression darkened, he concluded he’d already failed.

“The last few nights I've been dreaming about. . .” Dean winced faintly, but tried to hide it. “Cas.” He paused and swallowed.

“Cas came to see me,” he continued. “He kept trying to give me some kind of message. It was all botched up, though. I couldn't really understand it, and now I realize why.” He said the last part pointing to the notebook as explanation. 

“Okay. . . ” said Sam slowly, unfolding his arms. “So, we call Cas.” 

Dean rubbed his hand over his mouth.

“Already tried that,” he admitted hesitantly into his fingers. “Acted like he didn’t know anything.”

Sam noticed the way Dean’s jaw clenched tight. Dean stared too hard at the paper, and if seething frustration could start a fire, Dean’s look was primed to burn. 

“Do you believe him?” Sam asked carefully.

“No. I don’t,” Dean deadpanned, saying it roughly as if chewing gravel. “He may not know what's going on, but there's something. You didn't see his face. There's stuff he's not telling me. Dude is being sketchy as hell.” 

Sam felt the urge to reach out and comfort Dean, but wasn’t really sure how. That kind of nonverbal communication wasn’t really in their wheelhouse. 

“Ok, your call,” Sam said instead, throwing the control back Dean’s way. “So what do we do?” 

Dean thought for a moment, pushing down the sudden rise of emotion, then he gave Sam a knowing look. 

It took a moment before Sam caught on. He groaned. “No way, Dean.” 

Dean threw his hands in the air. 

“What other choice do we have? We can’t call Cas, and we need to know what this weird-as-hell dream riddle says.” 

Sam rubbed his eyes, sighing.

“Alright,” he conceded, sitting, then propping his elbow on the table to rest his chin in his hand. “Rock, paper, scissors to see who’s gonna call him?”

***

Cas arrived at the warehouse just before dark. The room was huge with vaulted ceilings, lit with only a few fluorescent bulbs. It made the whole place look seedy. In the center, an old operating chair was plunked down, screwed to the cement. 

On the table Cas glanced at the silver basketball-sized circular ring with sharp metal spears impaling the sides. Next to it sat a metal tray filled with various instruments still sporting his blood from the last encounter. 

“Not very hygienic,” Cas said stiffly.

Crowley rolled his eyes. “It's not like you can catch a staph infection, angel.” He emphasized the last word with a smirk.

One of Crowley’s men stood outside. The hinges creaked as he shut the door on them. 

Cas sat down hesitantly and uncomfortably in the chair. He pulled the beige tie connected to his trenchcoat into his lap from where it had fallen to the floor. Crowley grabbed the metal ring. He circled it around Cas's head like a rusty halo. 

“Ready?” he asked. 

Cas took a deep breath: “Not really.”

Crowley looped Cas’s head with the metal band and reached one hand up to a screw. Cas heard the slow screech as Crowely turned it closer towards his forehead. He held his breath in anticipation. 

“Three,” came Crowley's voice, “Two. . .” 

Suddenly, from the blood covered table, Crowley's phone began buzzing. He paused his work, walked over and casually lifted it up. 

“Well, what do you know, it's tweedle dee and tweedle dum,” he smiled up at Cas who shot him a glare.

“Ignore it,” said Cas, his voice commanding despite his compromised position; his forehead trickled with a delicate amount of blood where the screw had barely scratched it. 

“Still keeping secrets, are we?” Crowley started, but stopped with Cas’s scowl.

“Alright, fine,” said the King, pressing the ignore button. He made his way back to Cas. “Now where were we?” 

Cas could feel the blood trickle down his temple almost before he felt the insertion. He groaned as his head seared with pain. 

“Anything?” asked Crowley, methodically. 

“No,” Cas grunted. 

Crowley nodded and tried again. Cas squeezed his eyes tightly, seeing white, then red as the sting turned into a deep, agonizing throb. They repeated this process multiple times, Crowley calmly examining each intrusion with a “Now?”, “Now?”, “How about now?’

Crowley’s hands moved swiftly, ignoring each grunt and scream from Cas. Cas’s breathing was jutted, and despite himself he tried to pry his head free on instinct. The metal cage kept his neck soundly in place, blood and sweat dripping down his shoulders and shirt with each new turn. 

In the moments Cas was actually aware of Crowley, he looked bored save the ghost of a smile when he’d managed to make Cas really tremble or yell.

“Starting to grow quiet, angel,” said Crowley when Cas lay shaking and pale. “Not tickling the right spots?”

He held Cas’s head with a hand wrapped around his left ear, pushing another screw in with a hiss.

Cas gasped, gritting his teeth. 

Crowley made more innuendos as he worked, but Cas flitted in and out of awareness. Time stretched in front of him measured by blood. Crowley’s monotone voice hummed in the background and the heavy weight of metal cuffs dug into Cas’s wrists as he tried to break free. 

What was probably hours felt like days. His body shook with chills, fingers fisted around the armrests, clawing at the underside. 

Cas knew he was starting to lose himself, and it surprised him when at one point, even Crowley began to hesitate. 

“Keep going,” Cas breathed. It was a faint whisper, limp sounds barely wrung out of him. 

Crowley turned another screw, pausing as Cas’s eyes rolled back into his head, his body going slack. 

“Jackpot,” Cas heard Crowley say before his vision stopped, turning dark.

He swam in thick black fog with little to orient himself; Cas wasn’t in the warehouse anymore, instead he was shrouded in nothingness. After a moment, the darkness started to clear. Out of it, a flash of red light grew in front of his eyes. Slowly, he saw other colors floating and coalescing like a melting watercolor painting. 

He was walking, loafers splashing through the river of rainwater running along the dip in black asphalt. Cas’s socks squished in his shoes, his ears turning pink from cold. The red Neon Sign of the motel scattered broken crimson light through the sky. 

Cas’s wet trenchcoat sagged against his shoulders as he finally reached motel room six. He felt himself take a deep breath. Cas felt the frozen moment as if it were present. He could see Dean’s silhouette in the window, his shadow passing across the light of the dim-lit lamp.

“What am I doing?” he heard himself whisper, stone still. He cradled his thoughts inside him like a protective cavern, the red door in front of him a fortress wall. 

Cas suddenly felt himself at a tipping point. The consuming rain felt like an ocean, his choice the crest of a wave to either be broken or swept away. Dean’s shadow stretched through the window’s glass. He could leave--let the mirage of Dean fall far behind him until he was a tiny, disappearing dot on the horizon.

He placed his palm against the flat expanse of the door as if he could feel Dean:  _ I should have known better after Purgatory.  _ He made a fist, then paused before the knock.

Something deep inside him told him these actions weren’t choices, even if he pretended they were. The truth was, Dean was the force of nature, the all consuming collapse of autonomy. The tremendous weight of his magnetic pull had dashed any hope of staying afloat long ago. 

The door flew open.

Green eyes. Home.

Lightening razed the night sky, painting them in phosphorus glow. 

He absently brushed aside a wet strand of hair, unable to keep himself from smiling at the sight in front of him. Dean stared, expression unreadable with a duffle bag slung over his shoulder, keys in hand.

“Can I come in?” Cas exhaled.

Dean blinked, delaying before he moved to the side to allow him access. He slowly walked to the center of the room, listening to the door close lightly before he was face to face with Dean. He anchored the part of him that had felt at sea in the safety of this space, his senses inundated with freckles, messy blonde hair and the familiar smell of leather and whiskey.

“Hello, Dean,” he said, feeling the warmth of the greeting deep inside him.

“Hey,” Dean twitched, eyes darting from Cas to the floor and back again. 

Dean tossed the duffel bag on the bed, positioning himself in front of it when he noticed Cas’s gaze.  _ What did you expect? _

The scene stuttered in Cas’s mind like a broken television screen before settling.

“But I’m here,” Cas found himself saying.

“But you’re here,” repeated Dean. 

Dean’s hand found its way to Cas’s chest, flipping his backwards tie into place. 

_ Always with the backwards tie,  _ a voice said in his mind. Cas felt himself hold his breath as if he’d never heard it, instead losing himself in the urgency of unspoken words

The tension strung between them like a chord. Lightning pierced the room, chasing the shadows away, if only momentarily.

“I didn’t think you’d show up,” Dean said. “Well, I wasn’t sure you would after Purgatory. . . ”

Cas felt something cold and dark grow inside him. 

“Of course I came,” he said, the words rolling deep in his chest with a certainty he didn’t even know he possessed.

Cas watched Dean’s defenses begin to fall at his words, but instead of calming the way the pressure was building between them, it increased. An urgency he felt to be near Dean, to breath him in, built inside him like a pressure cooker. 

Dean’s cool hand came up to cup Cas’s cheek, and his nerves prickled with nervous anticipation. Stasis enveloped them, stealing the air from their lungs in order to hold them there forever, strung up on an endless line of tension. Cas’s heart beat in erratic chaos. Dean leaned closer. 

_ Touch me. _

Cas blinked first, rushing forward to close the gap like a burst rubber band. He locked their mouths together, hungry and fast. Gripping his fingers tightly in Dean’s hair, they moved together with desperation and abandon. 

A flash of lightning charged through the room, consuming them in light before its death, then suddenly, everything went black. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come shout at me on tumblr [HERE](https://shelikestv.tumblr.com/)


	3. Unearthed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After what felt like ages, Cas finally looked at him.  
> Dean could barely breathe. Cas was doing this to him. Again. He raised his hands in the air, anger growing, except once he’d captured Cas’s heavy stare he was hit with earnest, wordless pleading.  
> “I'll tell you everything,” Cas begged, so softly it crushed almost all of Dean’s resolve. "I promise."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, a huge thank you to my betas who are amazing: sinnabonka, wanderingcas, and skydorkers

Cas gasped. He looked around the warehouse and attempted to stand, but the metal and leather restraints dug into his wrists. He struggled against them, skin turning pink. 

“Get me out of this thing,” Cas ordered. “Now!”

Crowley fumbled at the latches, fingers slipping as Cas thrashed. 

“Would you hold still?” he whined. 

Barely freeing the first one, Cas reached toward his other hand, clawing and then tugging at the metal band on his head ineffectively. With nothing left to grasp for, he reached up to sloppily loosen the knot in his tie, desperate for any kind of liberation. 

Crowley tinkered with Cas’s bound, flailing wrist until he’d freed it. 

Immediately jumping up, Cas knocked over the table, instruments spilling, fanning out along the floor as they rolled. He turned to the door. 

“Hold it,” said Crowley pointedly. “Don’t forget your crown, highness.”

Cas’s palm felt the crest of his head where the cage still pierced his skull. Crowley worked promptly to free him, as Cas reluctantly dipped his head forward. He spun each screw in deft circles until they plunked to the concrete and bounced away. The last one dropped and Cas careened forward, flying from the room.

Crowley watched him fly, wings contracting and protracting faster than human perception. The grayish warehouse light reflected on the feathers' soft, black surface. Each powerful beat left behind a mild, hushed breeze. Crowley found himself momentarily absorbed in the display before he was once again alone in the room. He casually tossed the bloody ring on the chair with a clank.

“You’re welcome,” he huffed.

His phone buzzed. Crowley wiped his hands lazily on a white rag, streaking it red before answering. 

“Well, hello boys,” he greeted, walking out of the warehouse and into the cool night air.

“Crowley, listen, we,” came Dean’s voice, choking on the final strained words “need your help.” 

Crowley nodded to one of his demon henchmen as he walked up, and the man brought him his coat, helping him into it. Crowley passed his phone from hand to hand, placing his arms in each sleeve. 

“Well, aren't I the king of favors tonight?” he sighed, snapping at one of his men to lock the warehouse up. He quickly acquiesced. 

“Come again?” Dean asked, the sound of a car engine turning off in the background. 

“Nevermind,” said Crowley dismissively. “Where are you?” 

Dean provided the address and description. 

“Really? An empty parking garage in the middle of the night? Are we going to do something naughty, squirrel?” he asked. The line went dead.

He snapped his fingers, landing on black asphalt in a flash, a heavy pressure confining him in place. He scowled, looking at the way the garage curved down another level; realizing there must be a devil’s trap on the floor beneath him. 

Crowley pursed his lips together. “You know, when you flirt rough like this, it gives a guy the wrong idea.”

Dean and Sam both sat on the hood of the impala nearby, arms crossed. Dean slid off the car and walked over calmly. 

“I need you to read something,” said Dean. “Then I let you go.”

Crowley sighed. “You ever heard of asking?”

He held up the notepad close to Crowley who paused, then took it despite himself, subtly looking intrigued. 

Dean shifted from one foot to the other. 

“What does it say?” Dean pressed, taking an insistent step forward. Crowley backed up in response, but hit the invisible wall of the devil’s trap.

Crowley glanced at the paper.

“Enochian?” he asked. “Where did you lot get this?” 

“Wouldn’t you like to know,” Dean deflected, his voice harsh, but he rubbed at the back of his neck anyway. “Can you read it or not?” 

Crowley's eyes squinted. He raised his chin a little. “I can.”

Dean's expression grew darker. “And?”

Then, unexpectedly, Crowley smirked. He held the notepad up, emphasizing it as he talked. “Alright, I will. Fortunately for you, I'm beginning to rather like our little arrangement. I do my thing, you do yours, the angel does his. Everyone ends up satisfied.” 

Dean’s eyebrows raised at the mention of Cas, but he stuffed down the questions that started to form, pointing at the notebook. “Just read it.”

Crowley rolled his eyes, then leaned over the words, skimming his finger across each symbol, squinting in the poor lighting as his vision came in and out of focus. He strung the phrases together in their backwards order, eyes narrowing. _ Interesting _ . 

He studied Dean, tongue flicking between his teeth before he smiled, regaining his calculating features. 

“Huh,” Crowley began, keeping his tone casual. “Interesting you, of all people, would need me to read  _ this _ . . . ” His voice trailed off, but his attention on Dean was fixed. He opened his mouth, then closed it again. Running a finger along the underside of his chin, he hummed lightly through crooked lips. His eyes glossed over, bright and bewildered.

Suddenly there was a flutter of wings to Dean's right. The fluorescent lights in the garage surged and sparked, one blowing out completely in the far corner. Dean glanced over his shoulder.

Cas’s chin was cocked down, eyes glaring as if everyone in the room were under three feet tall as he hovered over them in godlike disapproval.

“What’s going on here?” he asked. Dean's hand reflexively folded around the gun tucked behind his back.

Cas’s scrutiny darted between Crowley and Dean as if he were unsure where he should land his attention. He robotically turned his neck, deciding to dedicate all his fury to Crowley.

“Cas? What the  _ hell  _ are you doing here?” Dean asked, letting his fingers start to relax. The burned out light gave one last spark, then died completely.

“I told you to leave him out of this!” Cas accused Crowley, ignoring Dean’s question.

Dean’s mouth fell open. 

“What?” he gaped. His nerves became spidery, cold surges running through him. He was met with the beige expanse of Cas’s back, like a wall.

“How the hell did you even know where we were?” Dean tried again, slowly. Carefully.

Cas’s posture visibly stiffened, shoulders bowstring tight. Crowley narrowed his eyes in challenge to Cas, face close. 

“Quite the little shit, aren’t you?” he said gruffly. “Do you want to tell him, or should I?”

Dean took a step forward, coming close enough to see the wave of hesitation in Cas; throat rippling as he swallowed.

“Tracked your GPS,” he said, finally, voice steady, but his eyes were still on Crowley.

Dean started to reply, but he noticed the way Cas’s fists were balled by his side. 

“Liar, liar, pants on fire,” mocked Crowley, tone darkening as he and Cas continued their unblinking confrontation.

“He followed me here,” Crowley finally said, tone cool.

“You did what?” Dean spat.

Cas stepped forward, brandishing his angel blade against Crowley’s throat. Dean and Sam both jumped to attention.

“Why are you even talking to this abomination?” Cas said. 

He pushed the blade deeper forward, drawing a small amount of blood from the stubbled throat. In response, Crowley held his hands up in the air, one open in surrender and one still clutching the pad of paper. 

“I didn't tell him anything,” Crowley said quietly. 

Cas grabbed Crowley's collar, icy blue eyes locked on his, and furious. His attention was only sidetracked when he noticed the thick-etched Enochian symbols in the lamplight. He snatched the notebook from Crowley's hand, quickly reading it. 

“Where did you get this?” he demanded, eyes going wide, a slight tremor in his voice. 

Crowley’s gaze landed heavily on Dean who struggled to process the events unfolding in front of him. Cas’s steely expression had melted a bit when he’d grabbed the notebook, but that only made Dean’s suspicions rise. That, and the fact that Cas was acting as if Dean weren’t even standing right in front of him. It was infuriating.

His nerves crackled with anger as his muscles clenched tighter. “Cas!” he spat. “You going to tell me what’s going on here?”

Cas looked up, head cocked and confused. 

_ The fucker doesn’t even look guilty.  _

“Let him go,” Cas ordered.

Dean’s eyebrows raised. 

“You’re joking.”

But Cas was still staring at the notebook while he spoke: “You don’t need him anymore.” 

Dean stayed planted in the same spot, waiting for an explanation, but it was Cas acting like he was put out. He just looked at the pages and Crowley, with a deep scowl. After what felt like ages, Cas finally looked at him.

Dean could barely breathe. Cas was doing this to him. Again. He raised his hands in the air, anger growing, except once he’d captured Cas’s heavy stare he was hit with earnest, wordless pleading. 

“I'll tell you everything,” Cas begged, so softly it crushed almost all of Dean’s resolve. "I promise."

Dean swallowed. 

“You got that right,” he said, the words coming out softer than the rough sounds he attempted. 

He hesitated, then caved.

Against his better judgement, Dean nodded. Cas squatted down, laying a hand on the ground where the edge of the trap was below them, and his palm lit up with yellow angelic light, melting away the unseen barrier. Predictably, Crowley vanished immediately. 

Dean made his way to Cas and pointed at the symbols.

“Cas, you are going to tell me right now what this is. What fuck is going on with you?” The last words escaped with more hurt than Dean would ever fess up to.

Cas sighed, then nodded. He sent a knowing look Sam’s way. 

After mulling it over, Sam walked to Dean. “Alright,” he said, and held out an open palm. “Keys.” 

Dean fished them out of his pocket and dropped them in his brother’s waiting hand. 

Sam walked to the car and Dean gave him a final look. 

“Keep your phone on,” Sam said. He hopped in the car and pulled past Dean and Cas, driving away, pointedly not looking at them as he left.

Cas struggled to make eye contact and Dean chased his gaze. When their stares finally met, Dean was surprised to see hesitation on Cas’s face. His shoulders were slack, eyes darkly rimmed and glossy. He looked tired. No, he looked exhausted. Dean felt himself lose his fire yet again, instead speaking softly. 

“Cas,” he breathed, this time pleading. “Something is clearly going on, so just please, talk to me.” 

Cas nodded. After a moment, he slowly said “It’s better if I show you.” 

He reached two fingers towards Dean’s forehead but paused, waiting for permission.

Dean nodded.

He blinked as Cas touched him, feeling the familiar whiplash of angel flight.

Dean needed a moment to adjust. To his left, a dim bathroom light cut through a cheap motel room. Checkered wallpaper rimmed the walls and the one bed in the room was covered with a ratty cigarette-burned comforter. 

Cas walked over to the bedside lamp and turned it on. He studied Dean, face expectant. After a moment his features fell.

“Do you recognize this place?” he asked.

Dean looked around again. He scanned the room, eyes stopping briefly at a cheap generic art print of seagulls at the beach, and an outdated television with a crack in the screen. The wallpaper peeled where it met the door frame to the bathroom.

“Not really. Doesn’t mean much, though. We stay in a lot of shitty motels. They all tend to blend together after a while.”

Cas rubbed at his neck, uncomfortably. The mahogany-colored heating unit thrummed to life. 

“Dean,” he said faintly, “we've been here before.” 

Dean shrugged. Cas’s voice reminded him of his dream, careful, yet direct.

“Probably,” He conceded.

Running a hand along the top of the T.V. stand, he made a face observing the way the tips of his skin turned gray. He wiped the pads of his fingers on his jacket.

“Just you and I,” Cas added pointedly. “Not Sam.”

Dean raised an eyebrow and a hint of a smile toward Cas. “Did you at least buy me breakfast in the morning?”

Cas pursed his lips, biting down on the bottom one impatiently. 

“Alright, sorry. Just you and I? Okay, I don’t think I remember it.”

He stilled, feeling the floating feeling of the dream return. Cas stood in front of him like another confusing riddle, Dean’s breath starting to catch in his throat. Phantom whispers of Cas’s voice sounded in his ear, the room starting to seem fuzzy.

“This is where we used to come,” Cas explained, and if Dean didn’t know better, he’d say Cas actually looked a little choked up, maybe even emotional.

“Okay, I’m definitely feeling like I’m missing something here, man. Maybe we have been here? I don’t know.”

Cas shook his head. “Not maybe. We have. Multiple times.” 

Dean’s eyes narrowed.  _ Multiple times? _

Cas stood close to the bed, staring at a faded ripped spot in the wallpaper with a faraway look. 

_ I didn’t think you’d show up _ . 

“What?” Dean asked, but Cas was still quiet. They were only two feet apart, but it was like staring at Cas through water, distorted and distant.

Dean shattered the feeling of Deja Vu, snapping his fingers in Cas’s face.

“Hey! Enough with the riddles and the vague answers. Today has been a long fucking day and your hiding shit from me again doesn’t make it any better. Just tell it to me straight. What’s up with you and Crowley? What’s this whole Enochian dream invasion?"

Cas blinked, returning to the moment. Dean grabbed his arm unconsciously. Cas’s behavior was really strange and disoriented since they’d arrived at the motel room, and it seemed like only Dean’s touch was snapping him back. 

“Right,” said Cas softly   


Dean noticed him,  _ really _ paid attention to him for the first time.Cas’s hair was a chaotic mess, fatigue radiating from him. He looked even more like Atlas than he had only minutes ago, if it was even possible. Cas rubbed his temples, sighing, and Dean noted how disturbingly human the movement was. That’s when he noticed the blood on Cas’s lapel.

“What is this?” he demanded, grabbing it, eyes darkening. “What happened to you?’

Cas thumbed where Dean indicated, and acknowledged it like an afterthought. 

“Oh,” he said nonchalantly. “It’s nothing, I’m fine.”

Cas gradually shrugged away from Dean’s grasp, ignoring his worried looks. He walked to the ripped space of wallpaper on the wall. Almost a foot’s worth of planking was showing through the hole. Cas stuck a thumb out, running it along the seams of the board. He hesitated.

“I’ll show you as much as you want to know. Starting with this.”

Cas pushed against the plank and it snapped free without breaking. Sliding the board out, Cas revealed a hidden shelf behind the wall. Dean bit his tongue to slow his surprised breath. Cas reached in and grabbed a box hidden inside and took it out ceremoniously. 

Walking to Dean, he laid a warm hand on his forearm with a softer: “I’m fine, I promise,” in reassurance.

He rubbed the dust from the top of the box with his thumb, it was clear it had been in there awhile. Still, there were recent fingerprints that weren’t just from today. Cas held the box out toward Dean.

“Open it up,” Cas said. “you deserve to know the truth.”

It was strange to see Cas so anxious, and yet it only furthered Dean’s need to understand what was happening. Carefully, he opened the wooden box, listening to the creak of tiny brass hinges on the side. He felt a strange sense of unease as he looked at the craftsmanship. He recognized it. Flipping the top up the rest of the way, his eyes and hands searched for the small insignia in the corner: D.W.

“I made this?” he asked in a shallow voice, letting his hands run across the dents.

Cas nodded, a barely-there smile curling the corners of his lips.

Dean reached inside the box which contained, mostly, a few loose papers.

He pulled one out; a two-person entrance ticket to an untitled movie. He let it drop and grabbed another; a picture of Cas in a baseball cap. Smiling.

Dean marveled at the photo despite his confusion as he let himself soak in the view of a Cas who looked undeniably content. His face was turned away from the camera, the ruddy rocks of a canyon behind him. He’d never seen Cas happy like that before. 

“Who took this?” Dean asked. 

Cas carefully made his way to Dean, grabbing the other side of the photo with a fond expression. 

“You swore you were taking a picture of the view,” he said.

Dean stared inside the box with a dreamy haze. He let the photo fall back in, his heart slamming blood through his veins and straight to his throat. Reaching inside, he dragged another picture from the pile, grip feeling weak.

“Is this some kind of a joke, Cas?” he said, staring at it, feeling his throat constrict. “Cause let me tell you, I ain’t laughing.”

Cas backed up a step, trying to maintain a calm demeanor.

“No tricks. No obligations. Just honesty,” Cas said in explanation. “I’m just trying to help you understand.”

It was a photo booth, Cas in one of Dean’s shirts, smiling again, this time in shy embarrassment and right at the camera. Dean eyed his own photo-face, taking a sharp breath in. His lips were pressed against Cas's cheek, eyes closed tight. Even in the kiss, Dean’s mouth was turned upward in a smile.

Vaguely, under the other papers in the box, Dean could see the outline of two heads close together in another picture. He chose not to unearth it. His breathing started to increase exponentially. 

“I know it’s a lot,” Cas whispered. Dean didn’t answer. 

Cas pointed to a folded up piece of paper against the edge of the box. “This one,” he said. “It’ll make everything clear.”

Dean’s thoughts felt like a swift river current, unable to find anchor before being swept away again. He set the box down on the bed, staring at the piece of paper. If moments in time could define a person, then certainly they could unravel one, right? His shadow cast over the paper, his sense of self already beginning to separate like untangling twine.

The conflict in his mind fueled the motions in his hand as he reached then retreated from the evidence on repeat. Finally, he pulled the yellowed paper out. Unfurling it, he read it to himself slowly, the words feeling both vital and electric while simultaneously very far away. He read it once. Then again. 

It was a long time before Dean said or did anything. His heart pounded in his ears, his chest threatening to burst with the effort. He felt his feet and mouth go numb simultaneously.

Dean’s breathing was loud and stilted, the sound of scratchy exhales filling the room. 

Cas stared silently. He reached a comforting hand forward.

“Don’t,” said Dean, tensing. 

Cas dropped his arm by his side again, retreating.

Blood-colored light from the motel sign projected through the window.

Dean tossed the paper on the bed as if it had burned him, noticing the discarded notebook with enochian symbols still lying on the bed, unanswered. He froze. 

He didn't know what he was about to say next, but in the end, the words shot out of him before he could even process that they belonged to him:

“Don’t follow me." 

Dean wrenched open the door then paused in the frame. He twitched as he sensed the things Cas was itching to speak. He couldn’t look back. Didn’t need to look at Cas’s face to know all he’d see was hurt. 

He paused. He closed his eyes. Then, he walked out, slamming the door behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> No I didn't almost name this chapter "The Box," or anything. Thanks for asking. :p  
> Come shout at me on tumblr [HERE](https://shelikestv.tumblr.com/)


	4. Artifacts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Leaning over the counter, the bartender caught Dean’s eye.  
>   
> “I probably shouldn’t be saying this since you’re ringing up quite the tab, but whatever you’re going through, you’re not gonna fill the hole with that shit.”  
>   
> Dean smiled wryly. “I can try.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some tags have changed as of this chapter, so make sure to check them for triggers! Love you all! <3

“So, you’re not going to tell me what happened?” Sam said. He maneuvered the impala down a narrow road, making a wide circle on the steering wheel with the flat of his palm. 

Cas rubbed his eyes, feeling like his tongue was coated with film. 

“You two had a fight,” Sam probed. “Over what? Dean’s dream with those symbols in Enochian? This isn’t the first time you’ve been acting really strange. You guys think I don’t see it, but I do. What’s going on with you two?” 

“It’s complicated,” Cas said. 

He was sitting in the passenger’s seat of the car. He felt strange and out of place there without Dean next to him. 

“Pretty sure I can handle complicated, Cas. Look, I left the two of you hours ago, now Dean’s missing, and you look like I should be worried about you, no offense.”

Cas smoothed down the top of his messy hair, then gave up the effort.

“We just need to find him, that’s all,” he said.

“And then? Is he running away from you, Cas?”

Cas peered through the window, watching the buildings rush past them like a conveyor belt. He lifted a hand to wipe the fog off the glass. He froze. Cas grabbed his head, hissing as pain jolted through his temples. 

“What?” Sam demanded. His voice wavered as he looked at Cas. “You okay? What’s going on?” But Sam, and even the reality of the impala felt as if it were in his peripheral. Instead, flashes burst into his mind, white hot. 

_ A room. The smell of pine and the warmth of a glowing fire. Home. Sudden numbness. Darkness. Hard metal cut into his wrists, hands high above his head.  _

_ “Hurt me, not him. Please.” _

_ A mocking voice spoke from the shadows: “Gotta get you where your heart is.” _

_ Pain pierced through him as he screamed. _

Cas clutched his head, groaning, then the sensation, along with the vision, faded. 

When he came to, Sam had pulled over the car, and was staring at him with an expression that was a mixture of anger and worry. 

“What the hell was that? And don’t tell me nothing, because you almost just passed out.”

Cas swallowed. 

“I, I don’t. . .” he started. “It was just fragments. . . pieces.”

Cas pushed a thumb into the ridge of his eyebrow until the dull pain began to recede. 

“Cas, look, I can’t help if I don’t know what’s going on.” 

Sam looked away, frustrated. Slowly, Cas nodded. 

Starting the car, Sam began to drive with a stiff jaw. The acceleration of the engine grated through the air.

“Angels don't sleep,” Cas finally conceded.

Sam, startled, turned to look at him. 

“What?”

Chasing a wet line of condensation running down the window, cas touched it with the pad of his finger. 

“I’m an angel, so I don’t sleep.”

Sam nodded.

“Yeah, I know,” he said, seeming more confused. 

“I don’t dream, either,” Cas continued.

Sam narrowed his eyes. “Makes sense, I guess,” he said. 

Cas licked his lips, mouth suddenly feeling dry. He grabbed the collar of his coat, adjusting it as it started to dig into the back of his neck. 

“The thing is, I started to.” 

Sam shifted in his seat, interest piqued, but he stayed still, waiting. Cold air breathed through the car’s air vents, making him shudder.

“You started to dream?” he asked quietly.

“I didn't even remember falling asleep,” Cas leaned back in his seat as he talked. “When suddenly, I was somewhere else. It was really,” Cas’s head tilted slightly as he seemed to try and find the appropriate word. He finally settled on “disorienting.” 

Sam’s mouth fell open slightly, and his gaze ping ponged from the road to Cas.

“Not only did the dreams not make sense, they were unpredictable, flashing in and out at random, taking me back again and again.” 

“Taking you back to what?” Sam interrupted, not able to keep quiet any longer, fists gripping his ten-and-two, tightly. 

Then, unexpectedly, Cas smiled, looking dazed. His eyes dipped to the floor. 

“To Dean,” he breathed. 

***

Dean finished off his beer letting it slam loudly against the bar. He put his finger up in the air, signaling for another. 

His head was starting to relax a little as his buzz hit, and he felt a sleepy haze coming on.

The lights flickered and Crowley appeared beside him. Dean groaned.

“What do you want?” 

Crowley sat down and ordered himself a drink, sighing. 

“You’ve got ‘lonely girl at the bar’ written all over your face.” He leaned in too close. “Got stood up?”

Dean’s eyes narrowed silently in challenge. Crowley paused. 

“So, you all read the ancient squiggly pictures together at girls night and now you and I are. . . good?”

Dean shoved his beer away with two fingers, straightening up in his chair. 

He turned, his elbow hitched on the counter, expression dark. 

“What are you up to, Crowley? Because last I checked you were lucky I even let Cas break that devil’s trap to free your sorry ass. Come to think of it, now that I’m starting to come down from about the fourth mind-fuck of the night, don’t think I fogot what you said earlier. What, are you and Cas butt buddies again?”

Crowley rubbed at his chin, his expression searching Dean’s like he was looking for something. After a moment, his hands curled away from the countertop and hid back inside his pockets as he retreated.

“Have you ever thought about a career in the theatre? You’ve got such a flair for the dramatic.”

Dean shot him a seething look. “C’mon man. You know exactly what I’m talking about. ‘I didn’t tell him anything’ ring any bells?”

Dean quickly put a hand on Crowley’s shoulder, pushing him back down into the bar stool. He let Dean manhandle him, sighing.

“Oh,” coughed Crowley. “That.”

Crowley fanned out his black coat while settling in. He briefly shot one squinted eye at Dean, chin raised in assessment. 

“You really don’t know what this is all about, do you?” he said slowly.

“Look, I came because I think I deserve the chance to tell you my side of the story before you start on the revenge track,” he continued, his voice raised. Crowley leaned over the bar, hands flat on the surface, face serious. 

Crowley's drink arrived and he sipped from the straw. The pinched thumb and pointer finger of his left hand ran up and down the stem of the glass.

Dean set his jaw, his impatient fingers tapping rapidly against the counter, then stilling completely. “I’m listening.”

“It's important you know that Cas came to me,” he began, “not the other way around.” 

He took in Dean’s reaction. “I know, I was surprised, too, after the God-awful Leviathan fiasco--no pun intended. But once he told me his story, I knew why he had to come to me. You see, your little angel friend has been having some surprisingly human experiences lately.” 

Dean's mind conjured images of he and Cas.

“Such as?” he asked Crowley, taking another deep swig of his drink, eyes glued to the ceiling.

“Dreams,” Crowley said. “Or so he calls them.”

He paused and Dean made an annoyed circular motion with his hands for Crowley to continue.

“One night, he showed up all frantic looking,” Crowley said. “He kept asking me about Semandrial, sniffing around about how much I'd learned during our. . . time together.” 

Plucking the tiny umbrella from his drink, Crowley tossed it to the side.

“You see, when Naomi was controlling our little Cassie, she did more than just turn him into my personal walking nightmare. Though he was that, which you know well.”

Dean shifted in his seat uncomfortably. If he wasn’t sure how to handle the images at the motel room, then he sure as hell wasn’t ready to think of Cas’s vacant stare as he beat the shit out of him in the crypt. 

“I’m getting so freaking tired of the runarounds tonight,” Dean said. “Just spit it out, or get the hell out of my face.” 

Crowley leaned back with an annoyed look. “You two,” he said, dropping some money on the counter. He shook his head. “You're the epitome of a dysfunctional relationship cliché.” 

He started to leave, but Dean's hand shot up, grabbing his arm. 

“Just tell me,” Dean said, his face fallen, his breath smelling flammable. 

Crowley grabbed Dean's hand pushing it off his arm lightly before leaning in: “They weren't dreams, Dean, they were memories. Naomi took away his memories. . . of you.”

***

“This is the last place I can think of. He’s come here a few times with Charlie when she’s been in town, but if he’s not here, I’m out of ideas.” Sam said, pulling the car over, gently easing them into the parking space at the Firebird Bar. 

“He’s here,” Cas swallowed, staring forward. 

He could see the familiar line of slouched shoulders and tousled golden hair through the window. Dean’s head bobbed between the rise in his shoulder blades, only surfacing to take another drink.

“Do you mind if I talk to him alone?” Cas asked, eyes not leaving Dean. 

Sam hesitated, but then nodded. “Yeah, I guess that’s for the best,” he finally said.

Cas opened the car door, an unnecessary action, but one he’d gotten used to over the years. The door creaked and he’d placed one foot on the asphalt when Sam’s voice chimed in again. 

“Whatever all this is, you’ll work it out, you know? You always do.”

Cas paused, considering, the top of the door where he’d placed his hand starting to dig into his palm.

“I hope so,” he said over his shoulder, before getting out.

***

“You look like someone who knows who you are,” Dean said to the bartender, then eyed his nametag: “Steve.”

Dean shook his head at the irony. 

The bartender lifted a shoulder in a half shrug, filling up a glass from the tap with amber liquid and sweeping the discarded foam from the counter with a pinky. 

“I guess,” he said, sliding the drink to the woman on the other side of the bar. She took it to a booth where her friends sat. The rest of the establishment was mostly deserted with a few other lonely drinkers. 

“Whoo,” Dean said, downing one finger of whiskey before signaling for another. 

“I mean, I _ thought  _ I knew, but then one day someone just comes along and. . . what am I supposed to do with that, anyway? The pictures looked real, but what the hell? Who forgets something huge like that? It’s not like I’m 90 and Dementia took over. I’d know if I went to the Grand Canyon, okay?” He pointed at the bartender accusingly as he said the last sentence.

Dean lifted the vacant glass and tried to take a sip, then frowned, repeating the gesture as he let the final drop that was stuck to the bottom slide achingly slow onto his tongue.

“My memory is like this fucking glass,” he said, staring through the bottom like an eyeglass. “Empty.”

Leaning over the counter, the bartender caught Dean’s eye. 

“I probably shouldn’t be saying this since you’re ringing up quite the tab, but whatever you’re going through, you’re not gonna fill the hole with that shit.”

Dean smiled wryly. “I can try.”

He tapped the top of the glass twice with his finger and the bartender sighed, pouring a little more whiskey in it. 

“What exactly did you forget?” he asked Dean. “Your girlfriend’s birthday, or something?”

Despite the way he’d insisted on more, Dean stared at the liquid as if he couldn’t bring himself to engage with anything around him. 

“I’m not sure I even know,” he whispered quietly, lifting the tumbler and moving it in small circles to create a whirlpool.

Then, he paused, letting the drink smooth out. He breathed in, holding the answer close to himself when he finally spoke:

“It’s all gone.”

***

Cas bit his lip feeling both apprehensive and relieved as he walked toward Dean’s hunched over form at the bar. That is, until he got close. 

Dean turned to him, eyes glazed over, both hands holding onto an empty glass. A beer bottle sat next to it, but he’d clearly graduated to higher grade alcohol.

“Cassss,” he slurred. He lowered his head, forehead resting against and sinking into the hard curve of the glass. 

“You came.” 

Dean’s voice echoed in the chamber of the tumbler.

“Of course. I’ve been looking for you. I know you said not to, but,” said Cas uncomfortably. Dean shrugged and Cas put one hand on his back, the other on one of his arms in a gesture of concern.

“Are you here to get him? Good,” came a voice from behind the bar. Cas turned to see a tall man wiping out the inside of a mug with a rag, nodding to Dean's slumped over form. 

Cas let go of Dean, inching closer to the bartender, only stopping when his body was flush against the bar. 

“Why didn't you cut him off?” he accused, voice dark. He stretched one of his arms over the counter to grab the man when Dean reached for it, stopping him. 

Suddenly the searing pain from earlier returned full-force into Cas’s head. 

_ The scrape of footsteps echoed against the floor. An angel blade reflected harsh and blinding light. _

_ “Stop!” _

_ Blood splashed on concrete. He heard himself whisper in the darkness: _

_ “It’s okay. It’s okay. . .” _

Cas clutched the edge of the bar, taking deep breaths into his nose to wash away the images. Small pressure cracks spread from his angelic grasp ripping through the wood. Steve eyed Cas’s death grip, luckily the stain was dark enough, only Cas noticed the damage. Still, the bartender raised his eyebrows, and looked at Cas with a wary expression. 

“I'mok,” slurred Dean, mistaking Cas’s episode for anger. “Let's just get out of here.” 

Shaking himself out of it, Cas heaved one of Dean's arms over his shoulders as he lifted him to his feet. Dean wobbled, one knee buckling, but Cas held him steady. He glared at the bartender as he walked Dean to the door, struggling to decipher the strange way he assessed Cas. Once they’d reached the outside, Cas quickly took flight. 

He wrapped his hands around Dean’s waist in transit, flying him straight to his room in the bunker; Cas didn't feel like explaining anything else to Sam yet. When they were there, he laid Dean gently on the bed, helping him out of his jacket and boots. Dean's eyes closed, and his breathing slowed. 

Glancing at the soft features of Dean’s face, Cas wished it wasn’t the most peaceful he’d seen him in the last 24 hours. He reached forward, pulling the covers up. He winced when the consuming pain returned, ripping through his cortex. 

Cas grabbed the edge of the bed, tangling his fingers into the blanket. Letting go before he disturbed Dean, he stumbled away, just missing the lamp as he walked himself along the wall with his palms, struggling to stay upright. Clutching the doorknob, Cas’s knees threatened to buckle as he hissed with fresh waves of pain. He shut the door as quickly as he could and tripped through the hallway. 

Cas stopped. He clutched his hair with both fists. The lightning shocks to his head blinded him completely. Then, once again, the darkness began to devour his mind.

_ Crackling logs. Soft music. Warmth and orange glow saturated the cozy trappings of a mountainside cabin.  _

_ “Missed you.”  _

_ Dean’s voice. Dean’s arm wrapped around Cas. His eyes traced Cas’s lips with a strange expression. Hungry. _

_ Cas nuzzled himself closer. “I’m right here.” _

_ Dean rubbed a cool thumb along Cas’s lower lip.  _

_ “Want you so much, angel,” Dean said, voice distant, running his nose along Cas’s jaw. _

_ The fire flickered, long shadows stretching across Dean’s face as he locked eyes with Cas. _

_ Cas shivered as one of Dean’s fingers traced up his spine. _

_ “Just kiss me,” Dean said.  _

_ Hesitantly, Cas did, lightly at first, then sinking into a deeper rhythm as Dean pulled him in, hands rough and insistent.  _

_ It was all wrong. There was nothing of Dean in the kiss. No familiar feeling of coming home. Cas pulled back, blinking through a fuzzy feeling of delirium.  _

_ “You’re not Dean,” he said, shock coursing through him. _

_ It started as an uneasy headiness flooding through his limbs, turning them to jelly, followed by nausea trickling down to his toes. _

_ “Shhh,” Dean’s voice said as Cas collapsed against him limply, boneless. His fingers twitched, before stilling. Paralyzed.  _

_ The Dean imposter carded his hands through Cas’s hair where it rested heavily on his chest.  _

_ “Stupid, trusting angel, blinded by this pretty face,” he cooed. “Sleep tight while I find the real Dean, and the three of us can have some fun.” _

_ Cas woke to a thud. _

_ He struggled to open his eyes against the light. Dean’s form came into view. No, not Dean.  _ _ Not quite. Cas could see it now, how cold and unnatural his smile looked compared to Dean’s warm one. A shifter. Behind him, the real Dean, shackled and bleeding. _ _ Cas struggled against the enochian cuffs that held him bound to the ceiling.  _

_ “Hurt me,” Dean begged. “Not him. Please, just let him go.” _

_ The shapeshifter smiled at Cas with Dean’s face, eyes hollow and expression unhinged.  _

_ “Like you did my wife? No. Hunters are numb to most kinds of pain. Gotta get you right where it really hurts. Gotta get you where your heart is.” _

_ Cas yelled as the confiscated angel blade sliced across his bare chest, his grace bleeding from the wound in ethereal light.  _

_ “I’m gonna fucking kill you!” Dean yelled. “Cut that stupid head of yours clean off!” _

_ The shapeshifter stabbed Cas again.  _

_ “Stop!” Dean begged, tears starting to flow. “Stop it, you son of a Bitch!” _

_ “Oh, I’m just getting started,” said the shapeshifter. “Gonna make him hurt in ways he’s never even dreamed of. Wonder if angel fingers can be popped on and off again. Maybe we’ll see how fast those ocean blues of yours heal after a gouging, too.” _

_ “Don’t you dare,” Dean yelled, as Cas felt himself scream again. Through the agony, he could see Dean struggle, fists and feet flailing at open air with the little give the chains allowed. Then, for a moment, his head dropped to his chest. He squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them, meeting Cas’s for the first time.  _

_ “Cas, I’m so sorry,” he whispered.  _

_ “Not your fault, Dean,” Cas said, stumbling through the words as he crumbled beneath the pain. “It’s okay. Just close your eyes. It’s okay. . .” _

_ Cas screamed again in agony as another tear severed apart his abdomen.  _

_ The pain rose through him in sharp waves, but it was the ache in Dean’s words, the desperation that hurt him the most. He screamed again. The darkness slowly overtook him. _

Cas wasn’t sure when he’d started crying, but he silently wiped the tears away. During the episode he’d slid to the floor, his back pressed to the wall. His hands shook, knees tucked to his chest like a child. The hallway floor was cold, and uncomfortable, but he listened to Dean’s gentle breaths on the other side of the door for a long time, using them to steady himself.

He slowly pulled the yellowed piece of paper from his trench coat. He unfolded the letter quickly, the tips of his fingers tracing the familiar handwriting. The smudged ink on certain letters felt like emotional fingerprints, as if every time he’d touched it, or read it, the words had bled along with him. The feather light paper felt like a weight wrapping itself around his chest, dragging him deeper down every time. 

Coaxing shallow breaths from his lungs, he scanned the words again, even if they caused him to ride the teetering edge of comfort and despair, even if he’d memorized them at this point:

_ Cas,  _

_ I’m writing this letter to no one, I know. You’ll never read it. You won’t even remember why any of these words mattered in the first place, but I needed to write it anyway. To get it out.  _

_ You looked right through me yesterday, but I’m still here, stuck in a museum of memories. That’s all that’s left, I guess. I can’t breathe when I look at you. I’ve had to watch you after you forgot me, and now I don’t recognize the person staring back. _

_ I deserve it. I do. Still, seeing you don’t remember the Grand Canyon, or the first time we kissed might just be enough to destroy me.  _

_ I knew it would be this way. I just wasn’t ready for how fucking bad this was going to hurt. _

_ I’m not sure when I realized I was forgetting, too, but I think I feel relieved, as awful a person as that makes me. Everything is slipping away. I barely know what’s real anymore.The last time I stopped myself from grabbing your hand I couldn’t remember why I’d reached for it in the first place.  _

_ I wish I felt hope, but something is just broken inside me. Even if I know, I know deep down I’m the one who caused all of this and all of your pain, it’s still killing me. _

_ I’m not sleeping, and you asked me why. How can I explain I’m clinging to whatever’s left, even if it’s not fair? _

_ The more I fight this, the faster the memories vanish. I just want to remember what I can while I can, even if I know it’s time to let you go. _

_ But when the memories are gone, I just needed place to tell you I loved you. Still love you. _

_ I am so sorry for all the ways I’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry for everything. _

_ Dean  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come shout at me on tumblr [HERE](https://shelikestv.tumblr.com/)


	5. Dying Light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was like waking up from a coma with amnesia--but instead of being reminded of a happy life, the feelings of loss and pain stared at him, mistakes haunting him. He would never knowingly hurt Cas. But he had. The evidence had come from himself. The least he could do was understand how. Why.

Dean woke to a knock at the door, eyes flicking to the empty chair beside the bed. He groaned, signaling to come in. Cas hesitantly entered, brandishing a hot mug of coffee and a bottle of ibuprofen. 

Dean viewed him through the morning haze, blinking as last night came toppling down on him. He sighed as he raised himself to a sitting position. 

“Hey.” Dean rubbed his eyes.

“Good morning.”

Rolling to the side of the bed, he let his feet spill over as he took in Cas's appearance. The collar of his trench coat was still slightly spattered with blood, the bags under his eyes darker. His clothes were even wrinkled. 

Dean could still feel his own heartbeat in his temples, veins bulging with each thump. He rubbed at the throbbing in his head.

“I could help with that,” Cas said, but Dean waved him off, gesturing for the coffee and pills, instead.

Cas handed him the mug and their thumbs touched, eyes meeting. They looked away. Cas rubbed the back of his neck. Dean cleared his throat. 

“Um. . .” Dean started, but the pictures, the letter, the one  _ he  _ wrote - the thought of them was so overwhelming that it stopped him. 

Cas jumped in quickly. “I’ll just. . . I’ll just let you finish getting ready.”

He stood, straightening his coat before adding: “I told Sam I’d help him make something called an ‘egg in a basket.’ I don’t really know how you cook with a basket. Obviously I’m misinterpreting something.”

Dean contemplated the exchange Sam and Cas must have shared to create  _ that  _ development as he heard the door click shut. He smiled lightly. Taking another sip of coffee, he began to feel the warmth of it seep inside him for the first time. That is until he remembered it was Cas who’d dragged his drunk ass home last night and his smile faded. Egg in a basket with a side helping of pity. 

Dean took another sip, attempting to chase down his bitter wake up call. 

Cas left him alone for the next while, only coming back long enough to drop off breakfast. 

“It’s just an egg in bread.” Cas may or may not have looked slightly disappointed. 

After Dean had finished eating, stomach pooled with warmth, his hangover began to subside. He stepped into his jeans, wiggling his toes against the cold floor. He popped the button of his pants in place, staring at the wall, lost in the haunting images of his own handwriting: 

_ But when the memories are gone, I just needed a place to tell you I loved you. Still love you. _

_ I am so sorry for all the ways I’ve hurt you. I’m so sorry for everything. _

The urge he’d felt last night to run fired up in him again, the letter making his brain crackle with intrusive thoughts and emotions. Did he even want to understand this new and insane reality he’d landed himself in? It was like waking up from a coma with amnesia--but instead of being reminded of a happy life, the feelings of loss and pain stared at him, mistakes haunting him. He would never knowingly hurt Cas. But he had. The evidence had come from  _ himself _ . The least he could do was understand how. Why.

He swallowed.

“Cas,” he prayed softly, rather than bring himself to yell. “I'm ready to talk.” 

After a minute, the door creaked open and Cas’s messy head of hair appeared first, followed by scrunched eyes holding emotions Dean wasn’t even sure he could fully read.

He held out his hand for Dean to take. Dean squinted at it. 

“Why do you have to keep zapping me places?” he accused. 

Cas shrugged. “The book I read on memory and dementia said going to familiar places can help.”

Dean shook his head. “You realize this crap. . . this probably isn’t the same thing, right?”

Cas bit his lip. “No, it’s not.”

With a stiff movement, Dean folded his arms. 

“Cas, how long have you been researching this?” he questioned, scowling. “How long has it been since. . .?”

Cas didn’t hesitate. “Not long. I visited some doctors, and amnesia and dementia patients.”

Pursing his lips, Dean cocked his head. He shouldn’t feel angry, but there was a dark part of him chained to the feeling of helplessness growing inside. It was like being a late arrival to his own life. 

“And how did  _ that _ work out for you?” he snapped. “Bet they were a wealth of information.”

Cas swallowed. He looked down at his shoes, not ashamed, but. . . sad?

When he looked up again, his expression was infuriatingly empathetic. 

“It was hard to watch,” Cas said. 

Dean pursed his lips, forcing his shoulder blades to relax a little. It took a bit, but he slowly, hesitantly held out his hand for Cas. If he was going to do this, he might as well not do it halfway. 

The enthusiastic way Cas’s eyes lit up at the olive branch made Dean’s heart beat a little faster, even if he struggled to admit it to himself.

Cas’s hand was warm enveloping his. He closed his eyes. 

When he opened them again, he inhaled quickly. They were standing at the top of a cliff, stark crimson rock surrounding them on all sides. Dean wiggled his feet in the red dust beneath them. The cliff ledge dove into almost bottomless chasms below. The sun was still coming up, sending pink waves across the scenery, starkly contrasting the shadowed areas that were too deep for the sunlight to reach yet. Dean’s knees went weak at the sight. He noticed Cas smiling at him. He lightly broke their hands apart.

“It's beautiful,” breathed Dean. 

“Yes,” Cas said, walking dangerously close to the edge, peering into the depths. 

Cas smiled again, freely, openly. He raised his hands up into the air, tufts of his short hair blowing in the wind. It all seemed very uncharacteristic for Cas, and yet, part of Dean felt as if he were looking at a work of art. Unfettered Cas; beautifully uncomplicated in the morning air. The scenery seemed like a million little brushstrokes: there just to make Cas smile.

“This is one of my favorite things I've remembered,” Cas said, almost to himself. Dean took a step forward, closing the gap between them, reality breaking into the moment. 

“I don't understand what's happening,” said Dean. He stood close to Cas, but was careful to keep from the edge. “I don’t remember us being like. . .  _ that _ .” The hurt in Cas’s eyes was unmistakable. Even more obvious was the way that Cas tried to hide it. 

Dean ran his hands through his hair, squeezing his eyes shut tight before opening them again. He caught Cas’s eyes:

“What did I do?” he asked, voice raw. “The letter said I hurt you. How?”

Cas bit his lower lip and looked away before answering. 

“I don’t know,” he said, finally. His voice hid layers that Dean wasn’t sure he could understand when he said: “I don’t remember it.”

“What  _ do _ you remember, Cas?” he asked. 

Even with stray cords of orange light running along their skin, Dean shivered with the breeze. 

Cas paused; “Us.” 

His face was conflicted as he said this, as if it was too hollow a word to contain the story behind it. 

“Dean,” he said, slowly. "We were together.” 

Dean blinked a few times, processing. He’d seen the pictures. He knew it, but it felt so much more real when Cas was the one saying it. Even more real than reading the letter in his own handwriting. He let out a bated breath, the gravity of the moment overcoming him.

Unconsciously, Dean licked his lips and Cas’s eyes darted to the motion.

Dean slowly breathed out, daring himself to look at Cas a moment more, even when part of him begged him to look away. 

He shook internally, denying himself the satisfaction of thinking it outright. He cared about Cas. Hell, Cas was family, but he’d never thought about. . . 

But he had. Even before Cas had dumped his old memories back into his brain, he’d felt something electric and unnamed between them. It had always been comfortably and safely forbidden, though. Locked up in closely guarded hypothetical shadows. 

Or at least that’s what he’d thought. Now, though, it was clear there was another version of him who didn’t run from the light. 

Dean’s eyes traced along Cas’s jaw, familiar now, after years by his side, and found safe haven in blue eyes lit with white-tinged edges as if Cas’s grace were constantly threatening to pour out of them in holy light. Then down to Cas’s hands, not calloused, but still well known to him whether covered in blood, or reaching forward to touch his scar with a curved palm. Did Cas know what it felt like when he touched his scar, even through the fabric of his shirt? Did it make Cas’s spine spark with feeling, too, like being lit up from the inside?

“We were together,” Dean repeated Cas’s words softly.

Looking at Cas, Dean finally understood that it wasn’t disbelief that clamped onto him so tightly he could barely breathe. It was fear.

It’d been why he’d left last night. The idea that he and Cas had been together wasn’t shocking. It wasn’t even far from believable, and that terrified him.

Exhaling long and slow, he finally nodded. 

He wanted to run, but Cas wasn’t running. Maybe they could face this together. 

“Ok,” he huffed, unconsciously smoothing his sticky palms up and down the front of his Jeans. Hesitantly, he nodded. “Start from the beginning.” 

Cas let his shoulders relax. Then, unexpectedly he stepped toward the edge of the cliff, and in a quick motion he sat so his feet were dangling off. He motioned for Dean to join him. Dean froze, scoffing. 

“Cas, in case you didn’t notice, not really a big fan of heights. Airplanes, glass elevators all freak me the hell out.” he shook his head, pointing to the edge, “I'm good here.” 

“I would never let you fall,” said Cas. The blue depth of Cas’s eyes were like calm waters, his gaze earnest and beckoning. Dean found himself swimming in the stillness, feeling anchored for the first time in the last 24 hours. Despite all reasoning, he took a step off the ledge. He sat on the corner of Cas’s coat, heels dug into the sides of the cliff face.

“The canyon is approximately five thousand feet deep underneath us at this very moment,” Cas said, marveling. 

Dean braved a glance below him, leaning forward slightly; the feeling of fear returning. “Not helping, man,” he choked, stomach tense. 

“My apologies,” Cas said, hiding a smile. 

The rising sun continued casting wayward light, turning the ruddy rocks into even deeper shades of reds and oranges. Cas sighed before beginning. 

“Our lives haven't been uncomplicated, and neither is our story.” 

Dean's hands gripped the cliff's edge tightly. 

“I need to know,” Dean said, realizing for the first time just how true that was. No matter what kind of fear he tried to bury, not knowing was infinitely worse.

Cas nodded, turning his body closer to Dean. “Ready?” he asked.

“Here?” Dean questioned, looking down again with a gulp.

Cas smiled weakly. 

“It seemed appropriate,” he said. Then, with a soft, and reaching look: “I’ve got you. I promise.”

Slowly, Dean nodded, never breaking eye contact with Cas, even if he felt like his eyes were asking him to be swallowed in their deep waters. 

He felt Cas's fingertips lightly touch his forehead before he was hurled back into a memory. 

***

Large trees engulfed him on all sides, the fresh and sharp smell of the outdoors made him feel present. It was dusk, and a light fog swirled through the air, breaking against the tree trunks in waves. In front of him stood Cas, his face bristly with scruff. He looked mangy, his clothes spotted with a collage of blood and dirt. Dean watched himself walk closer. Reaching up towards his face, he lightly thumbed the prickly hairs on his cheek. Cas's light blue eyes radiated brightly against the filth of their surroundings. 

Some of the memory played through, and he found himself spitting out “I prayed to you, Cas. Every night.” 

Benny watched them from the wings and Dean caught his eyes just as the vampire disappeared with a blink. Dean grimaced as the memory jolted forward, the scene suddenly changing. This time it was evening, Benny gone. The two of them were alone in a clearing, the smell of pine and mud almost as thick as the atmosphere between them. 

“Cas, you heard everything, didn’t you?” Dean asked.

Cas paused, then nodded in confirmation.

Dean sliced through the space between them, unsure if he was driven by desperation or anger, or both. 

“And you didn’t find me?”

Cas’s hand gripped the cuff of the trench coat’s right sleeve, as if ready to draw a blade if they suddenly got jumped by monsters from the trees. There was a small hole his middle finger skimmed across that Dean imagined had been cut by silver angelic steel. There was something steely about Cas, too. Like he wasn’t present, not fully.

“It wasn’t safe,” Cas said, finally. 

Dean’s fingers curled and uncurled in anxious tension.

“But you heard me? ” Dean asked again. “You heard. . . everything?”

Cas nodded. Dean waited for more from Cas, but it never came, so he continued on, tentatively. 

“Okay,” he said slowly, “Then I need you to know. The things I said. . . I meant every word.” 

Cas’s feet reminded Dean of a clock, both toes pointed at Four, body angled away. The sweeping curve of a dying pine branch dipped slightly between them. 

He met Dean with silence, face blank. Stormy hues clouded his eyes as they darted in patterns across Dean, around him, but never landing on him specifically. It was like talking to Cas through a one-way mirror. 

Even as a powerless voyeur, the memory clutched at Dean’s chest. He felt his hand twitch with the desire to grab Cas and shake him back to Earth. Clutching his thigh instead, he dug his fingers in.

“Are you even listening?” he felt himself say through tight lips.

Cas ran a hand in front of his mouth and turned away. Dean yanked Cas's arm, spinning him sharply back around. 

“So that’s it,” Dean said, feeling his shoulders tense. His voice fell, wavering. “I'm fucking baring my soul here, and you won't even look at me?” 

A light rain started sprinkling, icy pinpricks stinging Dean’s skin. Stroking his incisor with his tongue, he swallowed the taste of metal. 

“This isn’t how this was supposed to go,” he said. Cas looked up at him finally, opened his mouth, but said nothing. Dean shook his head in disbelief.

“You’re planning to bolt on me again, aren’t you?” he said, jaw tight.

Cas looked away, guilty.

“Jesus,” Dean whispered. With a stiff nod, he ran his hand across his forehead. He swallowed down the way his breath caught in his throat, vacantly ejecting emotionless words:

“Alright,” he said, shuffling back and forth, “Then leave.”

Cas hesitated.

“But don’t expect me to come looking this time.”

“Dean, I’m trying to protect you from--”

“Leviathans,” He said, though the words rolled bitter and disbelieving across his tongue “Yeah, I got that.”

Dean stared for a moment before finally pursing his lips. His toes dug into the dirt and he paused, taking Cas in, breathing him in, even if it made his chest hurt. 

“Is this really what you want, Cas?” he finally said, voice betraying him, small and weak.

Cas just closed his eyes. Tight.

Dean waited, for anything. For a touch. A sound. For Cas to open his eyes again.

Getting nothing, he turned to walk away. Taking a few steps, he already felt the ache of space he was leaving behind. Then, he stopped. 

“You know what, Cas? No. Protecting me, my ass.” He turned and made his way quickly back. “Anywhere else, I’d probably be the one running, wouldn’t have to ask me twice. But here?” 

Dean gestured to the woods locked around them, palms up. “Things are just easier here if you’ll let them be. No rules, just natural order, clear and simple. Yeah, we’re monster kibble, but maybe we always have been. At least Purgatory is honest about what it is. Pure.”

Cas squinted. “Pure? This place?”

Dean shrugged. 

Cas briefly made eye contact before looking away again, appearing uncomfortable, this time his gaze met the treeline.

“ I know you think there’s nothing left to say. Fine. But you’re gonna listen. And look me in the eye, goddamn it, I deserve that much.”

Cas locked him with a bright blue stare, and Dean got lost in the reflective ocean of uncertainty. 

“I prayed to you Cas, every fucking night. Do you even understand what I’m telling you?”

“I under-”

“Clearly you don’t understand shit,” Dean interrupted, starting to choke. “I left all of it behind for you that night.”

Cas’s neck tensed, his face careful. Suddenly Dean felt as if Cas were a metaphor rather than a person, holding secrets and emotions wordlessly like the impala had for him for years.

“What? Did you think that was just lip service? Hours, Cas. You know how I feel about begging, but I begged, heart ripped out, bleeding and I knew. . . ”

He swallowed.

“I  _ knew  _ you were dead. You had to be. It’s the only reason you’d leave me like that, because the Cas I knew, the Cas I  _ know _ would never put me through that. Even if he didn’t. . . even if you don’t feel the same. . . ”

Dean had a single tear running down his face, and despite the way he tried to cling to the vestiges of fire and anger, when the words escaped from his chest, they only sounded broken and small. 

“You wouldn’t,” he choked. Then, running his palm across his face, he stiffened again. “But I guess that’s exactly what you did, isn’t it?”

“Dean, it’s not that simple,” said Cas.

He shut his eyes tight, feeling the way his skin folded in cracks at the edges of his eyes. “I told you I was in love with you,” he whispered, another tear escaping. “So from where I’m looking? Yeah, it is.”

Dean's eyes opened briefly just in time to see Cas squeezing his shut. It was a long time before Cas spoke, but Dean could see the war raging in his expression.

“Dean, we both know I’m not making it out of here with you. Even if that portal lets me through, I’ll get you killed before we can even get there.”

Dean finally brought himself to look up. He was so close to Cas, too close, breaking his own rules about personal space, especially now where Cas felt like a white hot emotional stove. Dean went still for a moment, waiting for Cas to pull away. He didn’t, just breathed out abruptly, as if the air was punched from his lungs. He could feel the heat from Cas’s body, even in the cold. 

He swallowed hard and whispered, voice even less than before: “I love you, Cas. And admitting it was the hardest thing I’ve ever done, so I need you to tell me, tell me so I can hear it and so I can let this go, once and for all.”

Cas’s breaths were erratic, even if tiny, and his lip quivered the smallest amount.

“Tell me you don’t love me. Please, I just need to hear you say it.” Dean wished it hadn’t come out as pleading. His hand lifted up, hovering in the air beside Cas’s arm where he was barely able to keep himself from taking hold.

He was consumed with the feeling of free-falling, of anticipation, even if he knew what was coming next as he waited for Cas to answer. Cas's eyes finally opened, and a tear streaked down his cheek. 

“I can’t,” he answered softly, as if ashamed to admit it.

Dean exhaled a shaky breath as the words sunk in. Before his brain and body could catch up with one another, Dean found himself reaching down on instinct, barely touching the skin of Cas’s hand with the tips of his fingers, sending lightning through his nerves. Cas shivered and Dean became more bold, lifting their hands to intertwine by their faces. Tentatively, and very, very carefully, he tipped his head forward until his forehead touched Cas's. 

Dean leaned in, delicate and soft, unsure and tentative. For a second their lips almost touched but then he pulled back a bit. Dean let out a breath, steadied himself on his feet, then tried again. When their lips finally met, the kiss was soft and slow like a breath he’d been waiting years to exhale. It was a tender moment; the sprinkling rain; the muted sounds of tumbling river water in the background. Around them the sun was setting, coating the landscape with waning light. As they pulled away, Dean thought that somehow they'd done the impossible-- created a heaven in the midst of hell. This time Cas was the one smiling, finally, even if it reminded Dean of dying light.

“Simple,” he said, breathing the words against Cas’s lips, even if there hadn’t been anything in his life that had felt bigger, or more important than this.

“I know now you were trying to protect me, but when I said it, I thought you would come to me. Even for a minute,” Dean softly admitted. 

Slowly, Cas kissed him first this time, lips lightly grazing his. Dean leaned into it as their soft hands explored each other in new and experimental ways, across chests and forearms, Cas cupping the back of his neck. They kissed, and they breathed together, Cas’s hand slowly drawing across the expanse of Dean’s shoulder blade and slipping under his jacket to help him out of it. 

Dean helped him, letting it cascade to the dirt in a pile. Wordlessly, Cas's palm crawled up Dean's arm as he nosed at his jaw, and Dean shuddered. He stopped at Dean’s shoulder, slipping underneath his sleeve, fingers resting in the grooves of his scar-- a perfect fit. A subtle white light appeared where their skin met as if fusing them together. 

“I'm here now,” said Cas, as the sun set fully. But, even through the darkness, Cas's grace shone where it touched Dean, the effect blanketing them with muted light.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come shout at me on tumblr [HERE](https://shelikestv.tumblr.com/)


	6. Ghosts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Of course,” he said, bitterly. “Why the hell would I think it’d be any other way. Everything and everyone is just a fucking ghost, leaving us to clean up the mess.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes.  
> “We’ll figure this out, Dean,” Cas said softly. “Together.”

The memory ended, but the flavor of it clung to Dean. He and Cas still sat on the edge of the canyon, the drop feeling surreal as he came to. Cas looked at him expectantly. 

Dean took a deep breath, intending to say something meaningful that could give release to the waves of emotion pulsing through his mind. 

“It felt so real,” he said, unable to find an anchor to steady his spinning world, as if he was careening down the canyon head first, but only halfway to the impact point.

He wanted to open up to Cas, wanted to reach out to him emotionally, and, adding to the complexity and confusion, physically. Struggling to find his bearings, he searched for a point to fix his attention.

He got up, carefully, walking away from the ledge and from Cas’s confused stare, trying again unsuccessfully to create distance. For every step he took, though, Cas followed. 

“Dean,” he said, his deep voice penetrating the minimal space. Dean’s eyes darted to Cas’s lips, the taste of him still lingering. From the way Cas looked at Dean, he was feeling the same. It was a new experience (or an old one, depending on the perspective) to be immersed in someone knowing that you loved them. Maybe he’d always loved Cas, but now he knew what it felt like to hold him in his arms, to crave him so deeply he’d do anything to be near him.

“I need a minute.”

Dean finally looked Cas in the eyes, and there it was: his anchor. He placed a hand on Dean’s shoulder, replaying the memory in real time.

“Was it like that for you when you started to remember?” Dean asked. “Was it, so… much?”

Cas’s hand gripped him a little tighter, just briefly, then let go. 

“A bit,” Cas said. “It was confusing at first, images without sound. Sound without images. I don’t think I really started to understand what was happening, though, until I found your letter.”

“Right.” Dean said, still feeling completely removed from the idea that  _ he  _ had written it. “Pretty sure that letter made me more messed up in the head, not less.”

Cas nodded. “I can relate.”

Something twitched at the corner of his lips as if he were trying to find a small way to make the situation less heavy. Dean could see for the first time the way Cas shouldered the atmosphere, keeping it from crushing them both. 

“The night I found it, I’d felt lost,” Cas said. “I’d been dreaming about you. I was starting to remember what it felt like when we touched.”

Dean’s skin tingled as Cas spoke. 

“Then, I remembered we kept things there, in the wall. Pictures, mostly--a way to keep Sam from finding them.”

Something about that made sense to Dean. He was barely ready to admit all this to himself, let alone bring his brother into it.

“But I was losing myself to the madness,” Cas continued. “I’m old, Dean. Old enough to have seen the rise and fall of humanity, but feeling you. . .” 

Cas raised his hand towards Dean’s face as if he were about to brush his cheek with a knuckle. Dean held his breath, heart pounding in his chest as he waited for the sensation, but it didn’t come. Instead, Cas hesitated, then let his hand fall back down.

“I just didn’t fully understand,” he said.

Dean bit his cheek, letting out a shaky breath. He looked at Cas’s lips, pinked and chapped against the orange landscape. Dean gathered his senses again for a minute, shifting his gaze only to get stuck staring in Cas’s eyes. He shivered with the unfinished moment. 

“How do you forget something like that?” Dean finally asked, voice breaking.

Cas swallowed, tensing up slightly.

“Heaven, probably? Naomi’s been in my head before.”

Dean’s eyes narrowed, wondering at that thought, uncomfortably, as he felt the urge to find answers growing more desperate.

“Isn't she dead?”

Cas furrowed his eyebrows. “She might be.”

Dean bit his lip, letting out a small huff through his nose. 

“Of course,” he said, bitterly. “Why the hell would I think it’d be any other way. Everything and everyone is just a fucking ghost, leaving us to clean up the mess.” He pressed his fingers to his eyes. 

“We’ll figure this out, Dean,” Cas said softly. “Together.”

The wind blew light against their skin, carefree, in spite of the tension, then quieted.

“I should have known he was the reason you didn’t come back," a woman’s voice echoed in the air.

Both men turned quickly, on alert, fighting stance ready. 

“You?” Cas said, breathy and stunned. The wind picked up behind them as if in response, fanning thin sheets of red dust into their eyes, making them squint. Cas blinked, then drew his weapon.

“Naomi,” Dean said. “You’re alive.”

Naomi nodded, taking a step forward. “Not quite the ghost you’d hoped for, Dean?”

Cas struggled to react. He furrowed his eyebrows, chin dipped downward. “Why are you here?” 

He looked at Naomi, and her presence blinded him with searing pain, as his mind struggled with overwhelm.

_ Stark, cold lines of wires stretched along the walls. The cock of a gun. Footsteps scraping along the concrete. Like a kaleidoscope, everything began to come into view. Dark grey, empty floors. Dean, with his back turned, unguarded.  _

_ Two steps forward.  _

Dean glanced at Cas, not liking what he saw. Cas was still, his face frozen, eyes blinking and almost unreactive. On instinct, Dean drew Ruby’s demon knife slowly from behind his back and stepped closer to Cas, despite knowing the blade wouldn’t work on Naomi.

Naomi's expression remained calm as she spoke. “I’m here to fix this.” 

Cas swallowed, breathing solely from his nose as the pressure built inside him. 

“What is that supposed to mean?” Dean challenged.

Cas’s hands started to shake. He swallowed.

_ He watched himself strike. Hard, knocking the gun out of Dean's hands, quickly following with a punch to the jaw. He felt the crunch of the blow beneath his fingers as he watched Dean fall to the ground.  _

Naomi took a step toward Cas, who still seemed dazed and hazy.

“I will hurt you if you get in my way, Dean.”

Dean glanced from Cas to Naomi, feeling trapped and helpless. 

Cas, c’mon, what is wrong with you? Snap out of it. 

Cas hadn’t even drawn his angel blade. Instead, there was a conflicted expression on his face.

“Castiel,” Naomi said softly, the name like a weapon on her tongue. She took another step forward, and Dean couldn’t help but think she looked as if she was a hunter, stalking a skittish wild animal, poised to jump. Cas, on the other hand, remained completely out of it. 

“Heaven needs you. Every other angel knows how this works, but you, I’ve tried again and again. If I’m extreme it’s because you force me to be. I thought we’d solved this once and for all. You were finally free to come home, to your own kind. Where you belong, but instead you returned. . . here.” 

She looked at Dean.

“What?” Cas finally managed to muster through slow blinks. 

Dean felt his confusion collapse into focused anger. He held the feeling tightly in his chest, breathing faster.

“You windexed our entire history all so you could drag Cas back to heaven?” he spat.

Naomi turned her neck, almost robotically, fixing her cold stare solely on Dean. She furrowed her eyebrows, tilting her head slightly--an expression Dean’s mind usually reserved for Cas, and he hated it on her.

“Interesting,” she said. “It didn’t seem to bother you much before.”

Dean’s eyes widened in surprise.

Naomi walked forward, circling Dean, analysing him with her gaze. “You’re different than the last time we spoke,” she said. “I can tell.”

Dean narrowed his eyes. “What the hell are you talking about?”

Cas remained frozen. He willed his feet to move, but he couldn’t seem to create the motion he craved, uneasiness curling in his stomach at the way Naomi was looking at Dean. 

_ “No, Cas,” he heard Dean plead _ _ , “ _ _ no.” He reached up, _ _ defensively. Cas heard the sickly crack as he watched himself twist Dean's arm, breaking bone with little effort. Dean's eyes rolled into his head as he grunted through the pain. Swiftly, Cas raised his angel blade, gearing himself to deliver the final blow.  _

_ As he did, his eyes drifted across Dean's face. Dean's breathing was ragged and his eyes frantic. “Please…” _

Cas’s head gave a tiny twitch as the sensations overwhelmed him, eyes blinking quickly then stopping. To Dean it looked almost like Cas was having a momentary seizure. 

“What the hell are you doing to him?” Dean accused, throat clenching with a mixture of anger and concern.

Naomi smiled. She took another step toward Dean, scrutinizing him carefully. She paused. Her eyes bored into him as if she could drill though his mind from where she stood.

“He’s just taking a trip down memory lane.”

_ “Cas,” he heard Dean say as the angel blade hovered in the air. Dean's hands wrapped around his arm stopping him with almost no force, and making no move to retaliate.  _

Dean fought the urge to throw up.

“Fascinating,” she said slowly after a long, drawn out pause. “You really don’t remember anything.” 

Dean blinked, confused as Naomi took another step. He straightened his shoulders, lowering his chin in determination.

“I may be forgetting a lot of shit lately, but it’s not too hard to figure out this has your creepy stench all over it.”

She smiled, and it felt like staring into the eyes of a snake. She slithered closer. From his periphery, Dean sensed Cas tense, but they both stayed put.

“You are forgetting though, aren’t you?” She said, surprised. “That’s very interesting.”

Her gaze intensified, emphasizing her final statement.

“It’s a good thing I’m here to clean up your mess,” she said to him. “Again.”

Reflexively, Dean slid his foot back, half of it scooting over the edge of the drop. He felt his stomach flip.

“Again?” he echoed.

“You’ll see. If anything, you should be thanking me.”

_ Cas paused. Deep down, he felt longing to reach forward and touch Dean. He wanted to heal every twisted, sick injury he'd been beating into him. Instead, he watched himself hit him again, this time drawing blood.  _

_ Staring at the betrayal painted on Dean’s face, Cas acknowledged the metaphorical poison of his mind. _

Dean's eyes darkly fixed on Naomi. “Why are you really here?” he asked again.

Naomi was face to face with Dean, and Cas looked nauseous, still stuck, eyes glossed over. Dean’s throat tightened. She was doing something to Cas. She had to be.

“I told you,” she finally answered. “To fix this. And I think I may be beginning to understand how.” 

Their bodies were almost flush, the canyon depth barely a breath away.

“Dean,” she said slowly, even if Cas held her attention. “I need some time alone with Castiel.” 

“No--” Dean started. His hand tightened on the demon blade, but before he could react, Naomi raised her fingers, quickly touching them to the front of his forehead. He felt the light pressure of her skin against his, then his knees began to go weak as he fought unsuccessfully against the slow descent to black.

_ Dean's body lay prostrate on the floor. _

_ “Please,” he echoed weakly, tightening his grip, his voice reminiscent of hundreds of prayers directed privately to Cas. _

_ I don't have to do it again, Cas felt himself determine.  _

Naomi reached an arm forward, catching Dean before he toppled into the chasm. She laid him down on the ground.

Cas looked down at Dean's sleeping form through the memory flashes, panic gripping him. 

_ Despite his resolve, his body betrayed him. “No!” Cas heard himself scream as his blade slammed into Dean's chest. Blood seeped between his fingers, wetting and warming them with a flood of red. Dean's eyes glossed over, his arms thumping to the floor as his life ebbed and faded. Cas pulled the blade from Dean's chest, the red liquid pooling more readily. He felt himself fall to his knees, letting the metal clatter to the ground, spraying minuscule droplets of blood.  _

Naomi crouched down. 

“He really is beautiful,” she said, stroking a hand lightly through Dean's hair. Her palm slid down, touching his cheek, slowly. 

“And it's not just aesthetically.” She turned to look at Cas, reciting her words like an art teacher to a student, analyzing the still life in front of her. “He's a symbol. Of sovereignty. Of free will. Heaven's gift to mankind; to govern one’s self.” 

She stood, wiping the dirt off her slacks with her hands. Cas could barely register Naomi’s form in his stupor.

“And yet, so quickly you take his power away,” he said, the urge to run to Dean increasing in him, even while his mind was chained. “His memories. . .”

Naomi paused, expression unreadable, then she smiled. “Castiel, we've been around a long time.You should know by now," She left Dean's body to walk towards Cas, her feet abandoning small footprints behind her. “The Star of David, The Cross; Symbols are for mankind. Not for angels.” 

Cas felt colder. The wind echoed his senses, washing over him, raining small bursts of blood colored earth over his head. His feet ached to go to Dean. 

“What do you want with me?” 

Naomi looked to the sun, letting it color her face in yellow. “You're precious to me, Castiel. To Heaven,” she said slowly. “All the angels are. But you, I've been inside your head. I've felt your desires. I've seen your sins.” She glanced at Dean. 

_ Around him the scenery shifted again. He watched the lights become brighter, the walls shining as the _

_ Warehouse disappeared.  _

“How did you find us?” 

Naomi's brow furrowed, “Castiel, you may have gotten some of your memories back, but not all of them. There’s a reason why I can find you, wherever you are,” she nodded towards Cas's blade, “a reason why you haven't already stabbed me.”

Chest tightening, Cas clutched harder to his weapon.

_ Cas found himself back in the stark white grave, thousands of Deans lying massacred across the floor, bodies mangled and twisted. _

_ No more, he felt himself beg, shutting his eyes.  _

_ Moments later, the lights turned off, the familiar scene of the Warehouse camouflaging the nightmare as Naomi's voice filled his ears.  _

_ “Again.”  _

“Part of your mind always has and always will belong to me.” said Naomi coldly.

Cas felt incomparable anger raging from within. He moved his angel blade in front of him, breath ragged and unchained, and the fury had a liberating effect. He’d tugged free of whatever had held him back before, and even if just momentarily, he felt in control of his mind. 

He struck fast, slashing at Naomi, drawing blood as his blade grazed her arm. She retreated, grabbing the wound, looking surprised. Cas watched as the blood seeped between her fingers. 

Moving to attack again, he put more force behind this blow than before, but Naomi vanished, leaving Cas swinging into empty air. He turned in fast circles, trying to anticipate her return. 

He was so focused on Naomi that it took him a moment to notice. When he did, his blade slipped from his hand, piercing the dirt, then falling to its side. He eyed the empty spot on the ground in front of him, his world tilting. He fell to his knees. 

Dean was gone. 

Please, Naomi, he pleaded, don't hurt him.

In the back of his mind, a voice responded, clear and cold; “You are an Angel, Castiel. It's time you start acting like one.”

***

“There's no one here,” came Sam's voice from the next room. A moment later he walked through the door, carding his hands through his hair, sighing. 

“Alright,” Cas said, coming closer. “Let's try again.” He reached his fingers up to touch Sam’s forehead, but unexpectedly, he scooted back. 

“Wait a second, Cas,” said Sam. “We've been at this for an hour. Are you sure this is the best approach-- jumping from place to place randomly hoping she might be hiding Dean there?” 

Cas furrowed his eyebrows, growing frustrated. “No, I don't think this is the best approach," he said, his tone harsh, "But I don't have any other ideas. And besides, I told you, it's not random. These are places she made me go during those months she was controlling me.”

“Exactly!” said Sam. “Those sound like the last places she would take Dean. Naomi knows you would look there. We need a different tactic.” Sam's face softened as he slowly said, “Cas, there’s got to be somewhere we aren’t considering.” 

Cas looked questioningly at him, then felt an idea rise into his mind.

“It's too risky,” he said, almost to himself. “She wouldn't. . .” but even his face betrayed his small admission that this might be a possibility. This was Naomi. She could do things other angels couldn’t.

“Sam,” said Cas, shoulders tightening. “I think I may have an idea of where to look next, but you won’t like it.”

*** 

_ You need to wake up. _

Footsteps echoed in the background, muffled voices fading in and out. 

_ Wake up, Dean.  _

Dean's blood pumped densely through his veins, his limbs heavy. Though his eyes were sealed shut, his pupils moved freely behind his lids, dreamscape materializing then vanishing at intervals; ghosts, guns, the impala. Bobby. Demons. John. Slowly, the images faded away as the room began to spin, Dean's vision darkening until he was hurled into blackness. 

He floated deeper, drifting, the void swallowing him gently now. Sinking. Sinking. 

_ Dean! Dean, you need to wake up, now! _

His mind fished for understanding, finally recognizing the message his brain was trying to send him. Naomi was here. Cas was in trouble. He jolted awake, his eyes springing open to the light. He gasped, jerking up to a sitting position, blinking. His chest heaved in and out as he regained his breath. His muscles tensed as he familiarized himself with his surroundings. 

“Good,” came Naomi's light voice. “You're awake.” 

Dean scanned the area, noting its sterile appearance. The walls and floor shone white and spotless. Dean was sitting in an operating chair at the center of the room, a sharp instrument Dean didn't recognize on a small table beside him. He attempted to jump up, but found he was bound, hand and foot by thick silver cuffs. He glanced quickly towards Naomi. Another man he didn't know stood beside her. 

“Wha-- where am I?” he spat, repositioning himself across from the two of them. Immediately, he noted his cuffed wrists and feet, feeling restrained and defenseless. He braved a quick look behind him, taking in his surroundings. It almost looked like some sort of office.

Naomi didn't even bother to look at him. Instead, she gestured to her companion: “Nathaniel, why don't you keep lookout, I'll stay with Dean.” 

The man nodded and walked from the room, slightly encouraging Dean's prospect of escape. 

“You're in heaven,” Naomi said as the door closed behind Nathaniel, the room somehow seeming smaller when they were alone together. 

Shit.

“Am I dead?” Dean asked, wishing it was the first time he’d asked that question and it didn’t feel so familiar.

Naomi sighed. “No.”

He shifted uncomfortably, giving his surroundings another once over. 

“Whose heaven?” he asked. 

Naomi smiled. She looked as if she were talking with a child, her tone patronizing when she spoke. “Not a human's heaven. A sanctuary for Angels. A place. . . to forget.” 

Dean internalized this, his eyes dipping briefly as he looked away. Pictures of Cas being strapped to this chair filled his mind. His eyes searched for something, anything that he could get to quickly in order to defend himself, if he could just get free. Naomi narrowed her eyes, examining Dean. He found the gesture unsettling. She didn't make any move towards him. 

“What do you want?” He asked Naomi, expression hard. “Where is Cas? If you hurt him, I swear to god--” 

Naomi smiled condescendingly. “What? You'll kill me? No, I don't think so.” 

Dean leaned in trying to muster confidence he didn't feel. “I've been known to be pretty resourceful when I need to be.”

Naomi blinked, glancing away. “Cas is alive,” she said in a lackluster tone. “I imagine he's looking for you right now. It'll only be a matter of time before he puts the pieces together and shows up.” 

She shifted, looking Dean in the eyes, “He always does, doesn't he? Chooses you.” 

She rounded the chair, the angle of the light changing, adding more shadows to her face. 

Dean's back pressed firmly into the chair, his fists balled. Silence ensued, causing Dean's ears to ring. Naomi peered into his eyes, her expression frighteningly tranquil. Dean swallowed, glancing at her hands, picturing them splashed with Cas's blood.

“Why are you doing this?” he asked, his voice broken. “The tablet is gone. You're too late to change that. . . and Cas. God, Cas . . . ” he trailed off, his voice charged. But, as he said Cas's name, he examined Naomi's expression with interest. 

Then, his shoulder fell as a realization suddenly dawned on him.

“Cas is just a plaything to you isn't he?” Dean said. “A means to an end, sure. But what happens when you’re a washed up angel, all of your causes dried up, your home in shambles? You come back to what you know. Victimizing one of heaven's most powerful angels, because you can. Bet it gives you a sick sense of control.” 

Naomi's face was unreadable and it took a moment for her to reply. 

“I'm here to help him,” she said, almost gently. “He was meant to be more than your errand boy.” 

“Yeah, he was meant to be yours,” Dean spat, angry. 

He didn't know if Naomi flew, or if he blinked, missing how she got right next to him, but in a split second he was face to face with her wrath staring back, finally released. 

“I was going to wait until Castiel got here, but I think maybe I'll just get started.” 

Dean looked at her apprehensively, his fingers gripping the metal cuffs around his wrists. 

“I have some questions for you, Dean Winchester," she said, a disturbing glint in her eyes. “I think it’s time I see what’s going on in that pretty little head of yours.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come shout at me on tumblr [HERE](https://shelikestv.tumblr.com/)


	7. Broken

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sam blinked. He suddenly thought of the way he’d always seen Cas: large and cosmic. Despite how Sam called Cas a ‘friend’ it was Dean who’d treated him more like a brother-in-arms than an offshoot of celestial power. Even after hell, Sam felt that Cas’s otherness drew more attention from him than any human traits he’d picked up.  
> Now, though, he saw through Cas’s eyes and to the core of the matter: his heart.  
> “Oh,” Sam said quietly in realization.

The hard ground felt uneasy underneath him, tilting, tilting, threatening to tip him into endless falling if he'd let it. The cavern of Cas's chest contracted--a collapsing star. 

He splayed his fingers wide, threading them through the snow, fingertips balancing his unsteady crouched form. Voices in his head:

_ You're broken. Just like him.  _

He pulverized the gritty snow beneath his fingers as he struggled to steady himself. 

I'm coming, Dean. 

“I thought humans couldn’t enter heaven. . . y’know, unless they died," Sam's voice came from behind.

Cas braced himself, his fingers digging deep into the frozen ground with angelic strength before using a bit of his grace to melt the chill. He planted the crossroads box in a shallow grave, then covered it up.

“Yes, that’s usually the case,” he said, standing and brushing his hands together to dislodge the grime from his palms.

“Normally humans can only enter heaven and survive if an angel is inside them, but that isn’t the only way. Adam, for instance,” he continued, tipping his head slightly, “was an exception.”

He shuffled back, scanning the deserted four-way dirt convergence, criss-crossing like a crucifix. Short woodpost fences ran alongside each of the roads--an abandoned failure to tame nature, the tall growth of weeds peeking through the snow. But even the outward serenity couldn't control the wild way his nerves flexed.

_ Symbols aren't for angels, _ Naomi’s words echoed in his mind.

“As in, Adam and Eve?” Sam asked.

Cas finally looked at Sam and he could see it in him, too-- the on-edge energy, vibrating through him. Worry for Dean. Even as they spoke, their minds were far, far away. 

“More like Adam and Seraphena now,” Cas replied, trailing white frost whisps. “But yes.”

He looked up, noticing the full moon’s light, shadowy clouds creeping inward in an attempt to swallow the milky ball of white, his mind consumed with Dean. 

“God created Adam in heaven before he banished him to Earth. There’s been knowledge of a human portal for years, but I don’t know of any angels that know where it’s hidden.”

“Except Naomi,” Sam said.

Cas’s fists balled at his sides, struggling to keep Naomi’s face from occupying his mind, unsuccessfully. He thought of her auburn hair lit up with fiery sunlight as she possessively touched Dean’s unconscious form on the cliff face. 

“It’s likely,” he finally replied, doing his best to disconnect from the thought. “She’s absorbed more angelic intelligence via osmosis than any other angel I’ve known. It’s been her job for Centuries, maybe even more, to. . . recondition us.”

Sam stared at the box buried in the ground, the normal color of his eyes drained, replaced with lifeless tones.

“Why would she take Dean to heaven?”

Cas paced in a slow circle as he talked, searching, as if the frost were challenging to turn him; to freeze him in place if he didn't keep moving. 

“It puts her at a tactical advantage,” he said. “Dean’s powerless and friendless in heaven, and she knows how difficult it’ll be for me to gain access.”

Sam ran his hands through his hair, tucking it behind his ears. He rubbed at his neck, nervously.

“Finding the human portal seems like a really big long shot, Cas," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets and stepping to the side to avoid a patch of black ice.

“I just need  _ a _ portal to heaven,” Cas explained. “Not necessarily Adam’s.”

A brisk breeze made Sam's skin prickle, and his face fell, finally understanding. He caught Cas’s gaze with a stoic look: 

“I can’t come with you.”

And there it was again, gray pallor, blanketing them in noir.

“I’m sorry,” Cas said, slowly. 

Sam's jaw tightened, face serious. His voice had an acute portion of bite in it when he spoke again:

“The other angels want you dead, Cas. This isn’t a good plan.”

Cas took another slow surveillance circle, avoiding eye contact.

“It’s our only plan,” he said, matter-of fact. 

Frustrated, Sam lightly stopped Cas’s orbit with a hand. 

“You’re acting like you’re the only one who cares about him,” Sam accused. “This is my brother we’re talking about.”

Cas’s face fell, every other part of him wound tight and completely still as if to keep himself from trembling. His voice dropped into a deeper, but smaller whispered timbre: 

“I need to get him back.”

Sam blinked. He suddenly thought of the way he’d always seen Cas: large and cosmic. Despite how Sam called Cas a ‘friend’ it was Dean who’d treated him more like a brother-in-arms than an offshoot of celestial power. Even after hell, Sam felt that Cas’s otherness drew more attention from him than any human traits he’d picked up. 

Now, though, he saw through Cas’s eyes and to the core of the matter: his heart. 

“Oh,” Sam said quietly in realization. 

He opened his mouth to say more, but then, suddenly, his face morphed, unspoken words and train of thought abandoned. Sam drew his demon blade, defenses up.

Cas felt hot breath along the nape of his neck.

“You just can’t get enough of me, can you?” came a voice from behind. Cas swallowed hard and turned. 

Crowley’s dark suit matched the cinder skyline, his hands deeply nestled in his pockets.

“You could have just called," he said salaciously. 

A cool breeze wafted close, making the baby hairs near Cas’s ear lift then settle.

“I needed to be sure you’d show up.” he said, dryly. 

Crowley stood too close, his teeth silvery as he smiled.

“I missed you, too.”

Neither man moved, instead staring each other down, Cas’s mouth a thin line. Crowley smirked at him while Sam huffed, putting both hands in-between them, splitting them apart with a nudge.

“It’s Dean,” Sam said, cutting to the chase. “He’s in trouble.”

Crowley’s eyes narrowed.

“Sounds like a regular Tuesday to me,” he said dismissively, then raised his hand as if about to snap his fingers to leave. 

Sam acted quickly, pulling demon handcuffs from his back pocket and slapping one onto Crowley’s wrist. 

Crowley stared down at the cuff looking mildly disappointed.

“That’s twice this week,” he sighed, but he didn’t seem as put out as either of them would have thought. He raised his eyebrows: “Fool me once. . . ”

Sam quickly grabbed Crowley’s other hand and placed the second cuff above it. He didn’t bother to resist, just stared down at the metal instead, shaking his head.

“Alright, I get the drill, trust issues and all that.” He looked at Cas. “What’s lover boy gotten himself into this time, anway?” 

“I told you to stop calling me that,” Cas said stiffly.

Crowley deadpanned: “I was talking about Dean.”

Sam rubbed at the bridge of his nose in frustration, towering over the two men in front of him but beginning to feel invisible anyway.

Swallowing the hard feeling in his chest, Cas finally spoke: 

“It’s Naomi,” he choked. “Naomi took him.”

Crowley shrugged as if unsurprised, and, for the most part, unbothered. He breathed tiny rings of white through his nose, shoulders slightly lifted in a permanent half-shrug. Cas felt heat and anger beginning to rise in his chest.

“This is because of us.” Cas berated him coldly. “Because we went digging for answers without thinking about the cost.”

Lifting an eyebrow to the sky, Crowley nodded. “I warned you there might be consequences."

Cas’s eyebrows furrowed deeply. 

“That was me,” he spat, furious. “I’m the one who said that.”

Crowley bounced his pointer finger lightly against his chin, slightly pursing his lips.

“Hmm, are you sure? That’s not the way I remember it,” he finished with the tiniest hint of a smile. “Besides Naomi hasn’t been around much since the tablet. Sure she’s really a threat?”

Even Naomi’s name loomed over Cas like a phantom. He felt haunted by the way she’d buried pieces of his mind, only to be resurrected later. He thought about the way he’d been mentally frozen on the cliff face like she’d crawled inside him for a moment. Like he'd been no more than a sock puppet. 

“You  _ will _ help us save Dean,” Cas said darkly.

Cas’s words slashed with far more sting than the cold. Guilt and worry suffocated him with a new wave of all consuming fear. He’d tried everything he could not to picture Dean with Naomi, unsuccessfully, and every image he conjured made him sick to his stomach.

“Why should I care?” Crowley said flippantly, ignoring Cas’s wrath while lightly brushing a piece of lint off his left shoulder. Sam was the one to step in this time, face serious. 

“Did you forget we have you cuffed?” he growled.

Crowley squared his chin, smiling.

“I’ve got time to wait you out.” He trained his eyes on Cas. “What about you?”

Cas faltered. He turned to Sam, jaw tight. “It’s useless, Sam. We’ll just have to find another way into heaven.”

Crowley’s head jerked up, and he shifted uncomfortably. 

“Heaven?” he asked finally, his words tinged with a heavy dose of sincerity that he’d been lacking throughout the entirety of the conversation. “Wait, so you’re saying he’s. . .?”

“No,” Sam said through gritted teeth. “He’s not dead. Yet. But Naomi’s got him locked up there and who knows what she plans to do with him next, so stop being a smug pain in the ass. Can you help or not?”

Crowley’s shoulders stiffened minutely, his eyes narrowing. Sam turned back to Cas, opened his mouth to say something, but this time it was Crowley who interrupted.

“Okay,” he suddenly said, staring at the sky as if it had personally offended him. 

Sam’s eyes widened. “Okay?”

“I’ll help.” Crowley confirmed with a nod. “Again. Now what do you need?” 

Crowley scratched at the scruff on his chin, feigning nonchalance, but his facial expression gave him away, and he looked anything but.

“Why?” Cas asked bluntly.

Crowley raised his cuffed hands in the air dramatically.

“Because, this seems like the only thing that can get me out of these. Contrary to the way you two treat me like your personal encyclopedia whenever you need something, I have better places to be.”

Cas’s eyes narrowed, but he let his suspicions slip into the background; doing whatever it took to help Dean was the only thing worth focusing on.

“We need a portal,” he said. 

“We thought you might be keeping tabs on the enemy camp,” Sam finished.

Nodding, Crowley’s tongue flicked to his lower lip in thought. 

“She took him to heaven, huh? Little minx.” Crowley shook his head. “Rare things, portals, but know where one is, or at least the vicinity of one.”

Sam’s shoulders squared, his expression attentive. Crowley looked back and forth between Cas and Sam as he spoke:

“A city in Arkansas. Russellville. The angels have been moving the portal around periodically, but never anywhere too far. It’ll be in the vicinity.”

Sam’s shoulders visibly relaxed with the knowledge they finally had something useful to go on. 

“I’ll call some of the hunters in the area and see what they can come up with.” He said, quickly pulling his phone from his pocket and making his way to the car.

Cas watched Sam walk the distance to the impala, sitting on the hood as he pressed the phone to his ear. 

Cas folded his arms, then scowled at Crowley. 

“I should’ve just let this be,” Cas said. “I can’t believe I actually thought that working with you was a good idea. Maybe it would be better if we’d never found anything out. Dean would be safe. He’d be better off not remembering. . .”

The cadence of his voice dropped. It wasn’t anger, as much as he wished he could force it to be. It was regret. He’d played with fire, but this time it was Dean who’d been burned.

Crowley studied Cas’s face, taking on a softer edge.

“That’s the problem with you Angels,” he said, carefully. “Even the fallen ones have a God complex, and we both know  _ yours _ is insanely big.”

Cas shot him a hard glance, and Crowley smiled again faintly, but his earlier sarcastic demeanor had dimmed in favor of sincerity, and Cas couldn’t help but note it was a strange look on him.

“But it’s a design flaw,” Crowley continued. “Even as the King of Hell, I know my boundaries. I incentivise and order around the grunts, but I don’t do their job for them.”

Cas gritted his teeth.

“Talking to you is exhausting,” he said.

Crowley shifted his position, kicking up a bit of snow as the chains of the cuffs clinked together.

“ _ You’re _ tired?” Crowley said. “I’ve had to be the shoulder for you and Dean Bean to cry on for far too long.”

Cas let his arms unfold from the tight pretzel he’d inadvertently twisted them in and shot Crowley an incredulous look.

With his angel ears, Cas could hear Sam’s final words to whoever he was talking to, even from a distance.

“Look, Cassie, it's simple,” Crowley purred. “Hell knows I’m a complete idiot for even indulging you two, but here it is. You don’t get to make decisions like that for him. Whether it gets messy or not, he deserves to understand enough to make his own choices.”

“Telling him led to him getting hurt,” Cas said, standing taller to look more menacing, even though he’d never felt so small.

“You don’t know that,” Crowley said. “And besides, no matter what, you’ll strap on your angel wings and save the day.”

Cas’s eyes narrowed and he took a step back. He searched Crowley’s face as if seeing him for the first time that night, or maybe ever.

“Did you  _ let _ Sam cuff you?” he asked quietly.

Crowley looked away, letting his bound hands relax and fall to his lap in front of him.

“Sometimes people make mistakes,” he said, eyes flashing dusky-demon red. 

The night sky painted them both in a translucent shower of light, and though Cas could still see the twisted, shredded outlines of Crowley’s demon face through his vessel, he suddenly thought he looked more human than he’d ever seen him before.

“Found it!” called Sam, interrupting Cas’s epiphany.

***

Cas hid among the trees surrounding an old house in the middle of a bayou. An old man and woman relaxed on a weather-beaten bench on the front porch. They sat quietly, their frames unmoving, yet occasionally blinking, bringing an awareness that they were alive. Crickets chirped in the background, creating a sense of false serenity that Cas didn't feel. Sam was beside him as they hid in the thicket of trees. 

Sam pulled a pair of strange looking binoculars out of his bag. 

“What are those?” Cas asked. 

“They have night vision,” Sam explained. 

Cas forgot that though his eyes could easily see in the darkness, Sam's couldn't.

He nodded. “It’s the portal,” he said. “I’m sure of it.”

“So how do we do this?” 

When Cas spoke, his voice was hollow, “There are too few angels left to have the entrance to heaven adequately protected. I don't want to hurt them if I can help it.” He nodded, resolute: “We'll try diversionary tactics first.” 

Sam nodded.

“What exactly did you have in mind?”

The air felt muggy, and though the couple on the bench didn't move, the full onset of darkness increased the tension, creating a sense of time running out. 

***

The dim room glowed pale blue with the light of the tv screen. Nothing was playing and the atmosphere was still except the sound of an old clock ticking in the background and contented breathing. Dean sat up, one arm running the length of the couch. Cas was laying down, his head resting on Dean's thigh, eyes fixed on the empty television screen. Dean's free hand traced across Cas's scalp as he ran his fingers lightly through his hair. 

“That feels nice,” said Cas, blinking sleepily. 

Dean smiled: “We should probably tell Sammy about us soon. It's been weeks since you've been back from purgatory. . .” his voice trailed off as if he wasn't fully convinced of the words coming out of his mouth. 

“Then again,” he said, “I kind of like having this be just our thing. . . for now.” 

Cas smiled without looking up, “me too.” 

Suddenly, a female voice materialized in the room. “No, I've seen this memory before in Castiel's head. It's not the right one, Dean.” 

As if on cue, the scene swirled and jolted. Dean’s thoughts shivered then settled as he started to become more aware. Seconds ago, he had felt integrated with the moment as if living it organically, but, like a lucid dream, he'd somehow woken up to his reality. Naomi spoke again in his head: 

“I'm going to direct your subconscious. Try to relax, and allow me in.” 

Dean started to panic, trying to move his arms, legs, anything, but it was as if he were detached from his corporeal body. How long had Naomi been rifling through his head? 

_ It doesn't hurt _ , he marveled, thinking of Samandriel and Cas's experiences. 

“You're human, Dean,” Naomi said, answering his thoughts, her voice invading his head. “I can access your mind much easier. It doesn't need to hurt like it does the angels. . . if you cooperate.” 

Dean pounded against the edges of his psyche, willing himself to break free. 

“Just let go,” said Naomi quietly. 

Dean didn't respond, but a new scene materialized anyway. It seemed his collaboration wasn't necessary, after all. 

A memory fell into place of he and Cas burning a body together. He could smell the thick stench of smoke filling his nostrils. 

“No,” came Naomi's voice again. 

The bonfire scene contorted, bending like a funhouse mirror then popping like a burst bubble.

This time they were out for a walk in the thicket of trees behind the bunker, fingers laced before Cas pushed him up against a tree trunk, chasing his mouth in a deep kiss. 

“No.”

Dean and Cas fighting leviathan in purgatory. 

“No.” 

Cas trying and failing to make Dean breakfast, hair feathered with a thick dusting of flour.

“Not this one, either.” 

Cas smiling at Dean as he fell asleep on his chest. 

“Stop,” Dean pleaded, even as he wondered with growing worry what she could be looking for.

Naomi ignored him, surfing through Dean's memories at a reckless velocity, leaving him frustrated. In each moment he realized his past again, gaining memory after memory in an intense and visceral wave. He felt overcome with the broadening image of their lost relationship. 

But it was too fast. Again and again, Naomi would yank him from the moment like a cruel thief.

After some time, though, he started seeing a pattern. Most of the memories, he realized, took place after their return from purgatory, the most intimate moments between them as their relationship grew, during a period when their closeness was private. Or at least they had thought it was. 

Dean categorized his new memories, highlighting times Cas acted strange, disappearing for days, saying things that didn't make sense. He now deposited Naomi into these scenarios creating a much clearer picture of their time together:

They were never truly alone. 

Images continued flashing in front of him, his brain surging with information faster than he could process it.  _ What are you looking for, Naomi?  _

“Almost there, I can feel it,” she said, as if this were an answer. Then, finally: “This is it.” 

***

The night was calm, warm and quiet. Thomas placed his hands on his knees. He breathed through his nose quietly. Beside him, Sarah sat with her hands in her lap, her white hair pulled back into a loose, sensible bun. He looked at her closer, his mouth turning up into a small smile. They both sported wrinkles, and signs of sunspots and aging. 

Thomas scanned the darkness of the yard, blinking into the night. Nothing. They had been there for six months, keeping guard. Occasionally, an angel would come or leave heaven on business, however for the most part, the portal was abandoned. 

He looked again at Sarah, noting the folded skin around her eyes, her gaze focused ahead. They'd spent every day like this, rocking on the porch, overlooking the bayou. Occasionally they would go inside for appearances sake, but mostly they just kept watch, waiting for nothing. 

Sometimes they would talk. It started small; chatting about their previous assignments, or making observations about news that would trickle down to them from those entering or exiting the portal. About a month in, they started reminiscing of older times before the Apocalypse. Of when orders came from God. When they'd felt useful and needed. 

But, when he looked at Sarah, he realized that this task had grown on him. Maybe it was the certainty and structure that had returned to them. Or maybe it was something else.

“I don't really get sick of this,” Sarah said softly, the sound of a frog bellowing in the distance. “At times I miss heaven, but this. . . this is good, too.” 

Thomas looked into Sarah's eyes. 

“Yeah,” he said, smiling. “It's good.” 

The light had faded hours ago, and the crickets chirped lazily in the background. Occasionally, the sounds of small animals splashing in the water would echo through the air. Their chairs creaked as they rocked. 

Serenity.

Until the explosion. 

The blast was deafening. Immediately the shed erupted into violent flames soaring towards the sky. Instantly, the two angels were on their feet, weapons drawn. Sarah rushed forward, and before Thomas could think about it, he put a hand on her arm stopping her. 

She looked back at him, questioningly. He ignored it, and went first, sneaking close to the flames, feeling the heat on his vessel's skin. He moved to sneak around back. Sarah lagged behind. 

He heard the footsteps first, turning quickly to face Sarah. 

Thomas flew to her side as fast as he could, hugging her tightly to his chest, fanning his wings forcefully attempting to extract them both. But he was too late. Instead, almost in slow motion, he watched the match cascade to the ground, the orange flames licking the dirt, trapping them both inside the circle of holy fire. In the light of the fire, a familiar face was illuminated. 

Thomas realized he was still holding Sarah close to him, and he dropped his arms.

“Sam Winchester,” he said slowly. 

Suddenly, behind them, a white light flashed from inside the house. The bright rays shot through the window, streaming out, reflecting across the water. It only lasted a second, then was gone. 

Sarah looked deeply into Sam's face, her composure crumbling. 

“What have you done?” she whispered.

***

Dean's brain slowed down once more, taking in the new setting; he was driving the impala, Cas sitting next to him. Quiet music played in the background. Cas was looking ahead at the stretch of road, and Dean was looking at him. 

“So you think it's a ghost?” asked Cas, keeping his eyes on the road. 

“Yeah,” Dean felt himself reply, sounding distracted. 

Another car passed by, headlights fanning them with light before the shadows crawled back over their faces. Dean felt himself stare at Cas, glancing only briefly at the road when necessary. He looked lost as if viewing something secret only he could see. 

“Hey Cas,” he said. “I have a question for you.”

Cas nodded. “Alright.”

Dean felt himself grip the steering wheel tighter, hands sweating slightly.

He spoke slowly, his voice unsteady and lacking in confidence, a small betrayal of emotion garnishing his words:

“Did we ever. . . do you remember ever?” He stopped, looking unsure, then finally said: “Cas, have you ever been to the Grand Canyon?” 

Cas finally looked at Dean, his blue eyes deep and summoning. He shook his head. “No. I've never had a reason.” 

It was surreal to experience the feeling of his confusion while, for the first time, having enough memories intact to finally understand why he felt it.

“But I've always wanted to go,” Cas continued. “Why do you ask?” 

The song on the radio ended, prompting the next one. Cas shifted in his seat, his body turning closer to Dean, anticipating his response with interest. 

Dean felt himself falter. “I—” he blinked, appearing lost. “I'm sorry, what?” 

Cas tilted his head, waiting. When Dean didn't go on, Cas looked at him with furrowed eyebrows:

“You asked if I'd ever been to the Grand Canyon. Dean, is everything alright?” 

Dean turned his attention to the road ahead, the broken yellow lines of the highway blurring into one. Cas leaned forward, searching his face as Dean felt himself tightening his grip on the steering wheel until his fingers turned white. 

His voice was quiet and faded when he finally spoke:

“I don't know why I asked that.” 

Silence overtook the car. The scene seemed to slow as Naomi's voice chimed in again, perplexed:

“You started to forget,” her voice echoed in his mind. “But why?” 

Dean’s mind contracted as he took in her statement. 

_ You have no idea _ , he concluded. 

Suddenly, his train of thought derailed as a figure appeared in the back seat. 

Dean’s mind jolted in surprise. He could see the man from the corner of his eye, but his past self didn’t turn his head to look. Instead he stared through the glass of the windshield almost as if the man in his peripheral didn’t exist.

_ There’s someone in your car _ , he thought to himself.  _ Look _ .

But it was Cas who turned.

He glanced at the man covertly, expression unreadable, but not seeming to be alarmed. The man spoke directly to Cas, ignoring Dean's unsuspecting form entirely: 

“Naomi is unavailable,” he stated bluntly. “You'll report to me for the next few days.”

Dean’s mind reeled. How many times had that happened? Two? Three? A dozen? He was starting to realize how tarnished everything felt with Naomi's fingers weaving through it. 

_ I’m going to kill you slow, _ he thought viciously, staring at the bright yellow lines on the road until the blurred image buzzed inside the back of his mind, sparking his anger like a lighter. Dean let the sensation fill him up until, without warning, he was abruptly yanked back into his body, eyes flinging open to the light. 

Naomi’s face hovered over him, expression dark. Dean tried to move, arms digging into the restraints that held him to the chair. 

“What--” he began, but was quickly cut off. 

“You were aware of the man in the back seat?” asked Naomi, her tone frenzied and demanding. “Tell me what you saw.” 

“You are a new kind of vile, you know that, Naomi? I mean, I've come across some nauseating nightmares in my past, but you take the cake. What the fuck gives you the right to use people like that?” he yelled.

Suddenly, Naomi smacked Dean across the face and his jaw cracked slightly from the force of it. He looked up at her, and her fierce eyes held him darkly: 

“What did you see?” 

“You should know. You forged a ticket inside my brain,” Dean snapped, sitting up straighter.

The lighted walls of the room flickered. Naomi jolted, seeming as unsettled by the display as Dean felt. She hit him again, this time causing Dean to spit out a small amount of blood. He glared at her, tugging harder at his restraints, purple bruises blossoming from under the skin. 

In response, she leaned in, her voice deadly, 

“I said I don’t have to hurt you, not that I can't. Yes, or no. Did you see the angel in the back seat of the car?” 

Dean didn't answer, but the fear on his face betrayed him. He swallowed, fists still gripped tight, every muscle in his body stiff and on alert.

Naomi stood up straight, eyes widening. 

“You shouldn’t have been able to see him,” she said finally, her chin lowering which only served to darken her expression.

She turned to look at him, face calculating.

Then, she finally spoke, voice eerily quiet, piercing the room in a cold and discordant tone:

“I don't believe that memory belonged to you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Come shout at me on tumblr [HERE](https://shelikestv.tumblr.com/)


	8. The Natural Order

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Good soldiers need to obey without question,” Cas finally said in explanation.  
> “Heaven needed us to be both docile and deadly. Emotionless. So they fixed the broken tools the only way they could; wiping out the doubt and everything it came from.”

Cas stood behind the tree, watching. 

“This shouldn’t be taking this long, Sam.” He rubbed the back of his neck, squinting. “Explosion. Distraction. Holy oil.” 

He breathed deeply, growing anxious. A leaf drifted quietly toward the ground. Cas summoned his angel blade from the pocket dimension where he stored it, letting it fall from his sleeve to his waiting hand. He moved to step from behind the tree.

Finally, the shed near the house exploded. 

Cas walked by in time to see Sam’s match cascading to the ground, forming the whoosh of a fiery ring. Flames licked the sky, waves of heat rippling, creating a halo of haze. 

The portal glowed bright, white jaws visible in the backyard window.

Cas continued as the heat rose high into the air behind him, making his coat flap as he walked. Even from a good distance away, the exhaust from the holy fire sizzled the walls of Cas’s lungs mildly as he inhaled. 

Not bothering with the door, he flew quickly into the wall before continuing on his feet almost as if he’d ghosted right through, his gait direct and determined. 

The portal emitted energy throughout the room in subtle waves.

He took a deep breath, then walked through it. 

Passing from one realm to another felt--not exactly painful, but still extremely intense. It was the sensation of molecules splitting and scattering, his trueform momentarily a monolith beast, then ,like a vacuum, everything was sucked back into the small space inside the vessel to which he’d grown accustomed.

He stopped momentarily, taking in the sterile, plain walls of heaven. The gut wrenching images of his previous visits here flashed through his mind. Every time he set foot here he caused destruction. Briefly he wondered how much damage he would do today. 

He sensed his time undetected wouldn’t last and forced himself to stride forward. He already knew how to find the room, but he’d need to move. Fast.

Darting through the halls was easy at first (the angels’ ranks dwindling over the years), until he heard the voice:

“What are you doing here?”

She stood at the end of the hallway, angel blade shining like a righteous staff. Her dark hair was free flowing, falling just a few inches below her shoulders, eyes fixed on him with a disapproving stare. 

“Rebecca,” Cas said, his face softening. She squared her shoulders in response.

There was a rigid sense of formality that angels engaged in when they confronted each other, and he could sense the way it put her ill at ease as he challenged it. 

He supposed it made sense. Only rocks, in their inflexibility, seemed to withstand the ravages of time, despite the way nature chipped at and devoured them little by little. Angels needed to be made from lasting material, even if it built walls around them in the process.

“It’s been a long time,” Cas breathed.

Rebecca’s features shadowed with confusion. She took a step toward him, further blocking the hallway. 

“We’ve never met,” she said.

Cas paused. Naomi. Of course. 

He proceeded carefully. 

“You know me,” he said. He shifted his hand around his angel blade, loosening his grip. 

“All the angels know you,” said Rebecca, voice wary. 

Cas resisted the urge to flinch. At this point he should be used to having his crimes pointed out, but still his chest weighed heavy at the reminder.

“And I know  _ you,”  _ he continued. “We fought together. You were in my garrison in the fight against Raphael.”

Rebecca squared her shoulders. “You’re as insane as they say.”

Cas’s eyes narrowed in on her, and he took a step forward. She tightened her stance. 

“I don’t want to hurt you,” he said plainly. “Sam is watching the guards to the portal until I return. I have no desire to cause harm here. All I want is to retrieve Dean safely. He’s been taken to heaven. ”

She eyed him skeptically: 

“Unlikely.”

Cas relaxed his shoulders taking on a less threatening stance.

“I’m telling the truth,” he said softly, “You can trust me. We know each other and have for a long time. Even if you don’t remember it.”

Her eyes darted in uncomfortable patterns as he spoke, bottom lip twitching as a thin strand of her hair tumbled in front of her eyes. He stole the question from her mind, answering it before she spoke it aloud:

“You know the stories,” he said. “About Naomi.”

The corner of Rebecca’s eye twitched reflexively. 

“They’re a Myth,” she stated simply, as if angels bore the same kind of legends and fairytales as humans. What could be beyond the realm of possibility when your existence itself is infinite? The idea that your memories might not be real, apparently. And Cas understood it. Identity couldn’t exist without recall. The angels had so very little autonomy anyway, the idea that not even their past belonged to them was frightening.

“Reality,” he said more softly. “And it’s been going on for thousands of years, if not more.”

She shook her head to deny the way his words began to penetrate her defences, her wayward strand of hair brushing against her cheek bone as she shivered.

“We’re reconditioned again,” he said, and took a step, “and again.” Another step.

The distress was visceral in her eyes, even as she continued to shake her head in the tiniest motions: no, no, no.

“Why would they?” she finally choked out, her blade lowering to her side involuntarily. 

Cas knew the unraveling in her face. He recalled the way the lamp light had shone overhead, creating shadows across he and Anna in the cool night air so many years ago. 

_ I feel... It gets worse. _

“Good soldiers need to obey without question,” Cas finally said in explanation. “Heaven needed us to be both docile and deadly. Emotionless. So they fixed the broken tools the only way they could; wiping out the doubt and everything it came from.”

Rebecca took a step back, eyes closing briefly, her blade still raised toward Cas to protect her vulnerable moment. 

“Please,” he said. “Let me show you what you’ve forgotten.”

Hesitantly, Cas pocketed his blade. She stayed on alert but didn’t stop him as he reached forward with both hands, fingers pressing gently against her skull. He let the images of their shared experience flow into her mind.

The room flashed-- Castiel stood beside her, the blue light inside his eyes looking at her with warmth she didn’t fully comprehend. A memory, just beyond her grasp beginning to find her once again: __

_ The powerful ocean raged against the rocks where they stood, overlooking a cozy village just inland.  _

_ Specks of lights like stars scattered across the greenery, cottages getting ready for the night as each bright pinprick winked out one by one. _

_ “Why did you bring me here?” Rebecca asked Castiel. Her nerves sensed the shift, felt the off-ness of time travel, even if they were only a few months displaced from reality’s timeline. _

_ “You asked me what we’re fighting for, Rebecca” said Cas, motioning his sharp jaw towards the peaceful hamlet.  _

_ He indicated toward the village. _

_ “Look down. What do you see?” _

_ “I see what you see,” she said, eyebrows furrowed. _

_ Cas nodded.  _

_ “Tell me.” _

_ “Seventy five houses, a hundred and sixty seven people. Just a village, nothing special.” _

_ “Would you like to know what I see?” he asked. _

_ He held up a hand, pointing to a small window.  _

_ “A little girl. Tomorrow is her sixth birthday. Her father has been saving for months to buy her dream bike. It’s neatly wrapped in the garage, waiting for morning. He has no idea she’ll never see it.” _

_ Rebecca looked to the wave ravaged rocks, feeling the pressure in the air; a tsunami. _

_ “Everyone in this village will be dead soon,” Castiel said. “Raphael lifted up the ocean on the other side of the planet to look for the weapons I’d hidden. All that displaced water had to go somewhere.” _

_ Castiel’s eyes drifted from window to window: a family cozied up by a fire. An old woman knitting a scarf for her grandson. _

_ “It happens,” said Rebecca. “Humans die. That’s how it’s always been.” _

_ She searched the depth of emotion in Castiel’s face.  _

_ “One hundred and sixty seven lives were cut short here. They’re people, not just a head count. They have thoughts, dreams, desires, and all of that will be washed away.” _

_ Rebecca peered back into the house. The little girl had a coloring book propped on her knees as she lay in bed, surrounded by stuffed toys. Rebecca could hear the roar of the impending wave. It shouldn't matter what happened to them. It shouldn't, and yet… _

_ “What can we do?” _

_ Her hair was chased by the impending storm, flowing free and untamed in the humid air. Castiel’s shoulders looked heavy, even as he held them high. _

_ “Nothing,” he said, voice hauntingly quiet. “They’re already dead.” _

_ Rebecca stared at the water, feeling the weight of it, pulling in on itself as the tides receded to create an arching, destructive blow.  _

_ Castiel looked at Rebecca with a steady and intense gaze. “Help me fight Raphael.” _

_ She looked again to the little girl who'd turned off her light, features slowly relaxing into peaceful sleep, and very human dreams; this one about her birthday and what type of cake she'd eat.  _

_ “You asked me what we’re fighting for? Freedom. Freedom to choose, to live, to be,” he said as the wave arrived, a massive, looming shadow overwhelming the town. “Don’t let him take those choices away.” _

The hallway lights flickered with a buzz, then settled. 

Cas let his hands finally drop heavily to his sides, breath coming fast. He took a step back. Rebecca’s hair was strewn wild where he’d disturbed it, the electric current of overwhelming feeling sparking in her eyes. She let out a shaky exhale, finally looking lost and small.

“They never can fully scrub us clean,” Cas said quietly with a heavy dose of empathy. “In the end, it’s always there under the surface even if we don’t know exactly what’s missing.” 

Rebecca’s red-rimmed eyes stared back at him, weaving the old memories into the face of this stranger. Not a stranger; Castiel. The man who’d woken her from sleep. She could still feel the ache of that day deep-seated in her chest. 

In the back of her mind, the phantom remains of the people through those windows haunted her, as if viewing pictures in a storybook; outside the main narrative looking in. And she realized that angels were all characters in heaven's dark satire. They were an orphaned race that Gods laughed at while the angels’ tears dripped down, drowning the humans they were built to save.

She swallowed down the feeling of her shifting world as her eyes darted to movement behind them.

Cas turned just as the man slashed toward his abdomen. He jumped backwards, the metal thinly slicing the front of his shirt. Raising his blade to defend himself, Cas used evasive maneuvers to spin away from the angel’s attacks as they came brutally faster. He staved off another blow before freezing in his tracks--

He felt the sharp rim of a second blade slip against his neck from behind. The cold edge forced his chin upward and he fought the urge to swallow. 

“Kill him,” said the angel, his own blade still raised towards Cas.

She hesitated, staring at Cas’s bleached reflection in the glossy white floor, the image of her own face hovering over his left shoulder.

“It doesn’t have to come to this,” Cas whispered as the knife nicked him ever so slightly, a tiny bead of blood accumulating. 

“End him, Rebecca” the man urged.

The glow of Castiel’s grace peeked through the pinprick tear in his stubbled neck, the high pitched buzz of exposed grace ringing through the hallway.

Rebecca trembled against his back.

“Leave. I’ll take care of it.” she finally said, her voice betraying none of the hesitation he could sense in her. 

The other man’s mouth fell open to protest, but she gave him a cold stare, pulling rank.

“I said leave,” she said sternly. “Go back to your post.”

Hesitating, then finally nodding, the angel left. They both watched him disappearing in the endless maze of corridors, Rebecca’s blade still pressed tightly to Cas’s skin.

She kept him close and restrained as she steadied herself with deep breaths that reverberated in his ears. Eventually, he felt her hands slacken, releasing him cautiously as her arms unwound. 

They faced each other earnestly as if the metaphorical walls had crumbled to dust between them. She reached a soft hand forward and healed the wound on his neck, wiping the dribble of blood from his neck with a finger. 

“Go,” she said softly, and Cas could see the small glimmer of something unnamed being born in her eyes.

***

Naomi’s eyes were on fire. She still had a smudge of Dean’s blood on her fingertips form earlier and she rubbed her hands together, the dry flakes crusting and tumbling to the ground like ash.

Dean’s heart pumped in an unsteady rhythm, his extremities going numb. Naomi’s eyes shot up, the edge of her mouth cocked in an expression of distaste. 

She put a hand on each of the chair’s armrests, leaning her weight over him, dissecting him with her eyes. 

“You’re broken,” she said plainly. “Just like him. The only question is why.”

“What do you mean those weren’t my memories?” Dean asked, mouth feeling dry. “What the hell did you do to me?” 

She only shook her head.

Dean felt like an amoeba under the cold lens of a microscope, confronted with the giant eye of a scientist right before they squish you.

Her glance roamed up and down his form and at one point she even grabbed a fistful of his hair, yanking his head from side to side to better examine his neck. 

“Hey, watch it!” Dean yelled as she shoved his head back into place.

He worked at his restraints, aching to be free even if he knew it was futile, torn between wanting to understand this almost as much as Naomi and reveling in the idea she’d never get any answers from him. 

Her eyes then studied his left shoulder. She peered down at the angry, red burned skin of his scar, barely poking out from under his shirt sleeve.

“Don’t,” Dean ordered--a threat. 

Naomi pinched the fabric of his sleeve anyway, sliding it up, and he felt nauseous when their skin momentarily touched. She slowly uncovered the red and calloused scar tissue of Cas's handprint to the cool air of the room.

“Maybe symbols are for angels after all,” she whispered, almost hypnotized, hovering her hand over the print to match the outline. Dean’s skin crawled as he watched her inch toward him, the action feeling vile and impure. He hadn’t let anyone touch his scar in a long time. His subconscious raged against even the thought of the violation and he kicked and pulled again at his restraints. 

Something inside him welled up, erupting from deep within, anger combining with the feeling of raw potential and light. 

“Go ahead and touch it,” he said, power radiating from his voice, “and watch what happens.”

Naomi swallowed, staring back at Dean’s blue-silver light flooded irises, the bright walls flickering slightly in time with the clenched twitching of Dean’s tight jaw.

“Fascinating,” she said, pulling Dean's sleeve back down over his scar.

She smiled wider, her gaze consuming: 

“It’s time to go, Dean. Cas will be here soon.”

***

The halls of heaven felt dreamlike to Cas, though he'd spent eons inside them. He walked silently as he weaved in and out of corridors. Under different circumstances, it might’ve almost felt serene. However, as he advanced deeper, the space felt more and more unsettling.

Looking up at the ceiling he viewed the intricate designs carved into it, visible only to angels. The enochian twisted endlessly as his eyes traced along. White lines created rigid patterns-- symmetry and perfection, mechanical and lifeless.

Few angels had been to the heart of heaven, or at least few who remembered it, and Cas began to feel like he was yet again treading an uncharted, uncertain path. 

His head swam as he pulled the images of the area from his foggy memories. Almost there. He could feel it. There was a door in front of him, plain white and ruthlessly daunting. 

Cas lifted his blade and slowly pushed the door open.

He stepped into an abandoned room, his eyes searching, cautiously. An operating chair sat empty, a small amount of blood on the floor. He walked closer, letting a finger lightly touch the traces of blood ringing the restraints - Dean’s. Cas's jaw clenched tight.

He spied another door left open on the far end of the room. He walked through it, unnerved by the silence heaven produced in its walls--a quiet more enveloping than anything on Earth. Earth was life. This place was made for dead things. Even the angels.

The sound of his footsteps echoed ominously, his presence still the only sound as the door led him into a hallway--at the end of it another open door. He walked on, his only thought of diminishing the distance between him and Dean. He began to suspect he was some kind of mouse being guided, the doors strategic like cheese through a maze, likely with a trap at the end. 

It took him a bit to realize what was happening, but the path laid out for him wasn't arbitrary at all. In fact, after a moment, Cas knew exactly where he was going, and his stomach began to curl. Like deja-vu he felt both the recognition and the strange quality of this section of heaven. He’d been here before. In another life.

Rooms and halls passed by him in a blur, the center of the destination pulsing, calling to him.

The last door was closed. He’d reached the end, and the white expanse felt like a flimsy barrier between him and Dean. So close he could feel him.

Cas gripped the door handle, breathing deeply to ready his nerves:

_ I’m coming. _

White light flooded his senses. Cas squinted, the hazy figure of a man lying down on the floor coming into view--the only thing in the room. 

His breath hitched. 

“Dean?”

Cas ran to his side, crouching down and grabbing the unconscious man behind his neck with a hand. Dean stirred, blinking slowly as he came to. Cas’s chest clenched as Dean gave a relieved smile. 

“Cas,” he whispered blinking heavily, voice slurred with the sounds of sleep, “you’re here.” 

Cas’s eyes searched Dean’s clothes and skin, looking for any damage.

“Naomi?” Dean asked, holding onto his hand. 

Cas shook his head, a bitter apologetic smile curving onto his lips.

“I haven’t seen her,” he said in a low voice. “Dean, I...,” he started, but the words were dead weight inside his chest. He swallowed.

This close Cas could smell Dean, inhaling him with every breath. So close. And he let his muscles relax.

“It’s okay,” Dean leaned forward. “We’re okay. 

He inched into Cas, smiling softly: 

“Just kiss me.”

Cas froze, stiffening. Hesitantly, he put a hand on Dean's chest, pushing him away.

“What's wrong?” Dean asked, eyebrows scrunched. 

He backed away, raising his weapon into the air, breathing speeding up as he glared at the dark outline below him:

“You're not Dean.”

Cas blinked, deja vu washing over his senses.

_ The flicker of firelight. Long shadows stretching across Dean’s face. A cool thumb running along Cas’s bottom lip. _

_ “Just kiss me.” _

His heart hammered inside his chest as the images came. He knew how this would end.

_ “You’re not Dean,” he heard his own words echoing off the cabin walls. _

_ A blink. A flash. The blackness comfortably settled under his eyelids, the pain rushing through his body like lightning. Cas struggled to open his eyes, his wrists above his head; cuffed, bloodied.  _

_ The cold angel blade traced along his chest. _

_ “Hurt me,” said Dean, begging. “Not him. Please, just let him go.” _

_ “Gotta get you where your heart is,” Dean’s voice came again, his tone steely. _

_ No.  _

_ Not Dean. _

_ This wasn’t Dean. _

_ “No!” Dean screamed. His wrists twisted violently, rubbed bloody and raw as he fought to free himself. He ignored the searing pain, watching the shifter cut into Cas again, wearing Dean’s smile.  _

_ I did this. _

_ Dean’s thoughts pulsed inside his skull: anger, despair. He watched his calloused hands tear into Cas, his face twisted and smiling as he did unthinkable things. Blue grace, blood, Cas’s screams, the shifter’s--his own--laugh. Every sensation mixed together into a poisonous cocktail, shredding away at Dean’s insides.  _

_ I did this. _

_ “Wonder if angel fingers can be popped on and off again.” _

_ I did this. _

_ Cas’s quiet forgiveness: “Not your fault, Dean.” _

_ I did this. _

_ “It’s okay. Just close your eyes. It’s okay.” _

_ I did this. _

_ Cas screamed again in agony as another tear severed apart his abdomen.  _

_ “Stop!” _

_ Darkness. _

_ His bloodstream hummed his ears, red spots dancing in front of his eyes. _

_ The Impala screeched, wheels spinning with smoke as Dean peeled away from the building, the shifters blood still on his hands. His mind still spooked with the vision of his own severed head staring up at him with an unblinking smile. _

_ Cas in ribbons in the passenger’s seat, gasping for air.  _

_ “We’re gonna fix you up,” Dean heard himself say. “Gonna make you right again.” _

_ Gurgling, Cas spit up more blood, eyes rolling to the back of his head. Dean pulled the car over, finding himself running to the passenger’s side before he’d even registered he’d opened the door.  _

_ “Oh my god,” he whispered, breathless, hands clutched on each of Cas’s shoulders. He couldn’t even see all the places where the shifter had cut into Cas, his body – a sickening mosaic of red. He hadn’t been able to bring himself to keep looking after the shifter severed one of Cas’s fingers. Now though, he glanced at the red swollen line that circled it just glad his grace had been enough to let it be reattached.  _

_ It was then he noticed it was his wedding ring finger. Dean felt like he wanted to throw up.  _

_ He pressed his palm to Cas’s stomach, stopping the flow of a fresh bout of blood. Cas wasn’t healing fast enough. _

_ Dean held his breath as he waited, feeling weak. Finally, Cas’s eyes rolled back into place and the wound on his stomach sewed itself up.  _

_ Shakily, Dean breathed out letting his hand slip away from his stomach. As Cas’s color began to drain back into his face, Dean allowed himself a tentative smile of relief. _

_ But then Cas looked at him, eyes hazy, blinking.  _

_ Dean reached forward. Cas flinched.  _

_ Frozen, Cas broke out in a cold sweat. Terrified.  _

_ A red flash. Dean, standing in the street again, Cas’s blood still staining his shirt. _

_ Naomi, standing over him, disapproving: “You didn’t hold the knife, Dean, but you may as well have.” _

_ I did this. _

_ “He is better without you. What other proof do you need?” _

_ I did this. _

_ He felt regret rising in his chest, promising to bury him alive. _

_ “What do you want me to do?” he said, voice small, choked, dying: “What do I do?” _

_ Everything was red: His shirt. His hands. Cas’s face, terrified. He’d never be clean again. _

_ I did this. _

_ “Just let him go,” Naomi said, calmly. “Let me fix this.” _

Dean came to with a start. Naomi’s words stayed with him as he looked around. He could see Cas on his knees in the middle of the room, unblinking, eyes peering into the emptiness, face pained.

Dean rushed to Cas’s side putting his hand on his shoulders, cautiously. He watched him, helpless. Cas stayed still, unaware, even as Dean clenched his fingers deep, calling out to him softly:

“Cas. It’s me.”

Cas remained trapped deep within the world inside his head, eyes suddenly shutting, tightly, fists tightening at his sides. A tear streamed down his face, and Dean reached up gently wiping it away with his thumb. 

“What are you doing to him, Naomi?” Dean yelled into the empty room. “Please. Stop.”

He squeezed Cas's shoulders tighter. “I'm here,” he said desperately, “Cas, look at me.” 

Nothing. Cas was slipping through his fingers, drifting away. He opened his eyes again and they searched the ceiling, the walls, landed everywhere but Dean. 

Dean’s felt his legs buckle and he fell, mirroring Cas, broken and kneeling on the floor. Cas’s trench coat fanned around him like a shroud as Dean held him, looking into Cas’s faraway stare:

“Why do I keep losing you?” he whispered, bottom lip trembling.

Cas’s face twisted with pain. He clutched his chest, palm fisting around his tie as he struggled to breathe.

Dean jolted as a hand landed on his shoulder.

“Because,” said Naomi, voice soft, yet stark. “You two were never meant to be.”


End file.
